


short-winded

by tieflingenthusiast



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Mentions of alcoholism, Misgendering, Nonbinary Linhardt von Hevring, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Social Dysphoria, Trans Caspar von Bergliez, Trans Character, Trans Claude von Riegan, Trans Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Trans Male Character, Trans Mercedes von Martritz, Trans Sylvain Jose Gautier, Transphobia, all the lions feature prominently too they'll all get like a good chapter or so of hangin out, broken ribs, character deaths as of part 2, mildest of mild hints at romantic sylvix if you squint, spoilers for part 1 and part 2 azure moon route, unsafe binding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2020-11-23 14:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20893388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieflingenthusiast/pseuds/tieflingenthusiast
Summary: Felix isn't the one with the problem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix gets some unexpected help.

It’s way easier back in Fraldarius territory. The temperatures are abominably low and several layers to bundle up in are expected. It’s easier for him to get by without weird looks or crude comments or having to do… this.

Garreg Mach is not his frigid home. Garreg Mach is quite warm, comparatively, and has a uniform. A layered uniform that he can attempt to force to work in his favour, but a uniform nonetheless. After a mortifying round of testing out how to layer it with Sylvain, Felix has come to the irritating conclusion that hoping people don’t notice isn’t going to cut it.

Sylvain tries to offer advice, and is lucky to escape with unbruised shins for some of the crass things he says. Fool. He’s chased out of the room after a comment too many about there being ways to remove the problem all together, potions and surgeries and stitches and _the recovery period’s not that long, you’d only be out of battle for a month or two! _

That might work for Sylvain, but he’s not Sylvain.

He’s not Sylvain, and he’ll never be Sylvain, and he’s only been seen as Felix since shortly after Glenn was lost, and he’s not interested in hearing even more talk about how the ‘heiress’ is trying to step into ‘her’ late big brother’s shoes and how it will never be convincing.

It’s not him with the problem. It’s everyone else. Or no, not Sylvain, or Ingrid, or the boar, even. They’ve never had a problem. Everyone aside from them. His father, who only really acknowledged the reality of Felix’s life once they’d lost Glenn. The people who know, and make sure to emphasise to him that in spite of his low voice and lean figure that he’s looking _beautiful _today.

He doesn’t even care! He’d leave his body be if he could. Those foul-tasting elixirs Glenn had snagged him crates and crates and crates of as a birthday gift when he turned thirteen do enough. He’s cut like a man, as far as he’s concerned. He has the voice of a man. He can fight as a man, and his enemies know him a man as he cuts them down. His body, while unconventional, is a man’s body. His body. That should be enough for people. That should be enough for him.

...Felix is left alone when Sylvain is gone, and sets to work wrapping his chest for what will be the first of several hundred uncomfortable days.

* * *

One particularly bad hit while the houses are all out on some stupid bandit chase, and Felix finds himself alone and out of commission. He knew it. He knew he shouldn’t have cared today. Should’ve put on his battle robes as he would if he didn’t have anything to hide, not bothering with any peculiar looks. What does he care what people think? Their opinions aren’t his problem. They’re the ones with the problem.

But no. He _had _to feel that gnawing sensation deep in his gut, the dread at what ignorant idiots might say to him, or about him. He shouldn’t give a damn. He shouldn’t care at all.

Sadly, he does care.

Which is why he’s here, back pressed up against some of Zanado’s sunbleached ruins, trying to unravel the binding beneath his shirt while ignoring the pain that shoots through him with every breath.

The first bandit had been easy. He'd taken them out as quickly as any other. The one hit they'd gotten off had left Felix holding himself awkwardly as he went in for his second attack, and as he opened that blasted thief's throat he'd felt something move inside of him. That wouldn't have been so bad, if not for the second bandit that took his moment's hesitation to kick him in the chest. Next thing he knows, he's crawling out of the open canyon to hide himself away, trying and failing to suck in enough air to call out for Mercedes. She's too far away now. The whole class is.

If he dies because of this, if he has to face his ‘knightly,’ ‘noble’ brother who died defending the little prince and admit that the last Fraldarius heir passed away from an injury he set himself up for -

“Felix, you alright?”

Oh. _Great._

A young wyvern lands beside him, and off of its back steps the Riegan heir of the Golden Deer house. He’s a frivolous, cowardly bastard from what Felix knows, and maybe one of the last people he’d hope to see right now.

Following Claude is a sleepy-looking lad. His green hair’s a mess that’s barely tamed into a ponytail, and Felix honestly can’t remember his name. He doesn’t know what these two want or why they’re together, and he doesn’t especially care.

“Fine. I’m waiting for Mercedes. Get back to your mission.”

It’s hard to hide that he’s got one hand shoved into his shirt, having been midway through pulling metres of mildly bloodied gauze from beneath it. Claude, annoyingly, takes immediate notice. The kid whose name still escapes Felix blinks slowly, looking to be either exhausted or under the effects of one of the more potent herbs the greenhouse has to offer.

“You sure you don’t need help? That looks pretty bad. I can keep watch while Linhardt takes a look at it. No one’s going to come sneaking up while I’ve got anything to say about it.”

Claude grins and _winks _. Injuries be damned, Felix has to hold himself back from standing and smacking the look off his face. Instead he scowls until the smile awkwardly drops away on its own. Good.

“I’d prefer to wait for Mercedes.”

Mercie, tiring as she can be with the way she looks at him and talks about him and says he’s like a baby brother, knows his situation. He’s as comfortable with her as he’s going to get with a healer. They have an understanding. These two are not Mercie, therefore he’d rather die than have them know.

And judging by how difficult breathing is becoming with each passing second, he just might. Damn.

“Claude, would you be so kind as to get his shirt open for me? I do so _detest _the idea of my hands being bloodied.”

What sort of healer is this guy that a little blood would put him off?

No matter, because that’s not the main issue with what he said.

“If you touch me I’ll knock your teeth out, Riegan.” Claude, who’d only barely begun to move, freezes in place with a nervous smile and hands thrown up in defence. “...Good to know you’ve got something resembling a brain in there.”

“We’re only trying to help you, Felix. I didn’t think it’d be this bad - it doesn’t look like a lot of blood. But, uh…”

“You’re struggling to breathe, and judging by the gauze bindings I’d be confident in wagering you’ve gone and broken your ribs, punctured a lung. The blood, Claude, is not a concern, as unpleasant as it is to see. The real damage here is likely internal.”

Felix glares. There’s no reason for him to - well no, alright, there is. As he said, he’s seen the bindings. Still, to immediately assume the injury is his own doing! The nerve on him.

“Please, there is no need to look at me like that. I understand the importance that such measures must hold in your head. I do not judge, I merely fix.” He pauses to yawn - is Felix’s pain and humiliation _boring _him?! - and then drowsily continues on. “This would be far from the first case of such a thing I’ve dealt with. If you would like, I can point you to the same books on safely binding one’s chest that I studied at home. A certain friend of mine has cracked and shattered ribs multiple times using the same method as you, you need not feel ashamed.”

What, exactly, is he meant to say to all of that? He didn’t ask for his help, he didn’t ask for his advice, and now he’s being condescended to? How annoying! And yet…

Felix kind of doesn’t have any other options but to sit and listen.

“In return, however, I ask that you allow me to study your Crest when we return to the academy. A Major Crest really is an enthralling topic to look into, and Lysithea has grown weary of offering me research assistance.”

“You think you can ask for things in return?! You slimy little - nngh-!”

Felix moves to start, and it’s a decision he quickly regrets.

“Fine fine, whatever, just hurry up…!”

The time for holding onto his pride will be later, when he’s not potentially dying of such an idiotic injury.

“Linhardt, maybe not the time.”

Claude is careful with him. He treats him like he’s fragile as he opens up his shirt, and Felix _hates _it. His voice is raspy and weak now, and slipping out another threat is unfortunately out of the question until he’s fixed up.

“On the contrary - it is always a fine time for furthering my research. Or for napping. Or fishing, even. All peaceful activities. No bloodshed, no battlefield. Immensely preferable to this.”

Felix hacks and coughs. Claude makes the snap decision that it’s not worth it to lift his body and finish unwinding the gauze, which means there’s a sword at Felix’s chest for the second time in half an hour. Only this time it’s helpfully cutting through his bindings and freeing him from a small part of the problem.

Claude glances to Linhardt, making some sort of decision in his head that he keeps to himself, before speaking up to begin some idle chitchat. It doesn’t feel like the time. Like, at all. And Felix can’t even answer. Yet Claude talks. Oh, does he talk.

“You’ve got a pretty small chest, so I think with a couple of adjustments to your shirt you might be able to get away with not needing to do this at all.”

Kill Felix. Kill him now. The last thing he'd want to discuss with anyone is the size of his chest, yet somehow that's happening now. What has he done to deserve this?

Claude draws his bow and, glancing to his wyvern, the two begin a patrol around the area as Linhardt lays hands on Felix and casts. Felix is welcoming death with open arms at this point, because he really does _not _want to talk about this any further.

“If you’d let me, I could probably help you adjust it. I’ve gotta get the undershirt I’ve got on right now done soon too, so it’d be no trouble. That’s a point, anyway - armour. Get yourself a good breastplate, no one’ll notice if you’re not binding.”

He knocks a knuckle against his own breastplate for emphasis, smiling a disgustingly sincere smile at Felix. It takes a moment for him to realise what it is that’s drawn a genuine grin from the school’s stepford smiler - a feeling of comradery.

Felix doesn’t know what he thinks of that.

Linhardt speaks up again next. He doesn't try to look Felix in the eye even once, which is a pleasant change from most he has conversation with. Even so, when the tradeoff is hands on his aching ribs Felix struggles to decide which is actually preferable.

“I’ve heard Faerghus has a fine surgeon for this sort of thing in Gautier territory. A few weeks, maybe months away from the battlefield would be the price mind y-”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Felix _hates _being condescended to. And all of this, all the chat coming from these two? It registers as nothing but condescension. As if they think he's some pitiful child, new to all of this. Like these aren't decisions he's already made in his own life.

Linhardt’s healing is bringing back his strength, which means he’s strong enough to argue.

“If I can’t swing a sword, then it’s not worth it. I’ve no intention of fixing something that’s _barely _broken - if people have a problem with it, they can take it up with me in battle. I’ll show them the consequences of looking down on me.”

The wyvern ‘barks,’ and a bandit comes leaping over the ruined stone Felix lays against. Claude looses an arrow. The thief falls dead beside Felix and Linhardt. Linhardt shudders.

“If you care not that some would potentially have a problem, why do this? A longer time alone, and you could have ended up just as this man did. Or he could have come across you and cut you down as you struggled for breath. That would hardly be a fitting end for a man such as yourself.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Also, he doesn’t have a real explanation. Not one that he thinks would make sense to Linhardt.

“It screws with your head sometimes,” says Claude as he walks over and plucks his arrow from the dead man’s skull. Linhardt grimaces and tries to keep his eyes off the ghastly sight. “Why bind your breasts to fit into a society that doesn’t want people like you? Because usually there’s no other choice. Because they, or your own head, demand it of you. Sometimes there’s physical pain. Sometimes emotional. The former’s much, much less of a hassle to get rid of.”

He twirls the arrow absentmindedly between his fingers, before shrugging. “That’s what I think, at least.”

Linhardt takes his hands back, and Felix scrambles to close his robes and slip his outer layers back on. Moving so quickly still aches, but he's healed. He has to suppose he's lucky that he apparently was found by the only healer apart from Mercedes who _wouldn't_ be embarrassed to touch him as Linhardt has.

“Things would be easier if those who cared would funnel their petty concerns into an alley that is of actual relevance. Research, for example! Who am I to pass judgment on someone's presentation? Why would I take the time, when there are so many fascinating mysteries relating to our Crests that we have astronomically higher chances of learning the truths of? Who am I to care what gender is expected of _me _, when the only deciding factor in their demand is the genitalia I happened to develop? A waste of effort better spent elsewhere.”

It's an interesting perspective to have on it.

“I would much prefer to learn the secrets of one’s Crest than one’s sexual organs. Speaking of which," Oh, we're back to this. "I am rather excited now that you have agreed to help me, Felix. The Crest of Fraldarius is certainly a curious one with how often it seems to activate in battle. More than any other Major Crest I’ve laid eyes on. Learning more about it will help-”

“Do you ever shut up?” Felix snaps, fists clenched. A wide-eyed Linhardt shrinks back, and Claude laughs. This is it. This is the… second worst day of his life. “You too!”

Claude laughs harder, daring to find the daggers being shot his way hilarious.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Watching your face while Linhardt was talking, though - now _that _was good comedy.”

Felix grits his teeth.

The Alliance is going to need a new heir by the end of the day.

* * *

The other lions fuss over him an embarrassing amount when Claude returns him to them. Linhardt quietly explains the situation to Mercedes, giving her his recommended care tips as well as instructions on drawing his blood for him before and after battle. For a week. And mid-battle, if she can, whenever his Crest activates. That’s going to be a pain.

Claude elbows the professor, presumably explains what happened to them as well, then goes leading his wyvern off back to the Golden Deer. Byleth cocks their head to the side and looks at Felix with a worried expression on their face, and Felix’s skin burns so hot he’s sure that it’s about to spontaneously combust.

Ingrid grabs his cheek painfully and scolds him for worrying her. 

Dimitri smiles at him with such warmth that Felix wants to puke. 

Sylvain throws an arm around him carelessly, and hiding his wince at the jolt of pain it gives him is a losing battle. 

Annette and Ashe have red and puffy eyes that they’re both doing a terrible job at hiding. 

Even Dedue, who Felix had been fairly cruel to mere days ago, smiles and nods once to him in a silent gesture of _I’m glad you’re safe._

When Linhardt finally returns to the Black Eagles crowd, Mercedes skips over and casts another round of Heal on him for good measure.

Not that he’ll be admitting it, but it feels kind of nice that they all care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bind safely kids (and also preferably don't get stabbed)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Claude spend some time together.

Back at Garreg Mach he’s sentenced to infirmary rest by Byleth and Mercedes. Normally he’d be quick to object to this, quick to tell them both that he’s fine. Throw in for good measure that they’re cutting into his training time, and that this worry is all very much unnecessary and it’s getting on his nerves. This time, however… he’s too sore to put up much of a fight. 

That leaves an exhausted Felix laying in a bed much less comfortable than his own with Manuela perched at his bedside.

Thanks to specific instruction from Byleth, she’s fought to forgo her usual drinking tonight and is fully sober for taking care of him. Not that he entirely gets _ why _ she drinks in the first place, but he also doesn’t see the point in her taking tonight off. There’s nothing she can do for him. He needs rest and that’s it, monitoring him doesn’t help. All it does is keep him awake.

Manuela is restless the whole evening, until she drops sound asleep mid-ramble about some knight that she swore was going to give her a second go-around until Hanneman told him the sandwich story. Felix is mildly thankful that he didn’t have to hear the rest of that.

At some ungodly hour Linhardt swings by, slipping in silently so not to wake their now-sleeping professor. Were he Ashe or Annette, Felix would have shrieked in terror at the gaunt white face peering down at him when he opens his eyes.

“What-”

He shoots up, and Linhardt wordlessly presses a book into his hands. In the dark, Felix can’t make out the title for all his squinting and staring at it. When he looks back up Linhardt is gone, which is pretty spooky.

Why is he awake at this time? Why is he wandering around? Both important questions. Neither are getting answers. 

Felix sighs, lays back down, and falls asleep with the book in his arms.

After an agonising ten hours in the infirmary, He’s released and given permission to return to his room. He's looking forward to some alone time after this whole ordeal, he’s had enough of people for now -

He’s not getting that alone time, because Claude is waiting outside of his room. Figures.

“You’re not coming in. People will talk.” People being Sylvain, who will talk no matter what and mostly only to Felix himself. Even with that as the case, he’s not interested in the teasing bringing Claude into his room will earn him.

“People are always talking. But fine, fine. I was going to help you adjust your shirts, but if you don’t want that I guess I’ll be on my way. Good day to you, my dear Mr. Fraldarius. It’s been the most splendid of pleasures.” He says it with a smirk on his lips that makes Felix want to punch him, and then bows an exaggerated bow before turning on his heels. Damn this man.

“...Wait.”

Claude reverses in a ridiculous fashion, still with that look on his face. Hm, maybe Felix _ did _ die in Zanado. Maybe this is his hell. This could be his own personal hell. 

Less flames than he expected.

“I can’t sew.”

He doesn’t want Claude’s help that much. He could, if pushed to it, ask Mercedes for help with this too. It feels that he relies on her far too much sometimes, is the thing. Felix likes to consider himself a lone wolf, and a lone wolf doesn’t go running to his <strike> sister figure </strike> classmate for every tiny issue he has. Topping it off, would Mercie actually know the intricacies of whatever stitching Claude’s worked out? Her clothing needs differ greatly from Felix’s. Trying to figure it out alone is potentially an option…

Yeah, no.

Learning from Claude it is.

* * *

“I’ve got to say, I admire your guts. I don’t think I’d have the confidence to get all up in the enemy’s face while running the risks you were.”

Felix grunts. Claude, unfortunately, keeps talking.

“Buuuut - and forgive me if this is a tad too much - has this happened before? Or did something change yesterday? I don’t get it.”

“Stop. I’m not talking about this. If you’re out of instructions to give, shut up.”

Felix doesn’t want this. He doesn’t owe an explanation. It’s his body, there’s no reason he should have felt like he did - _ does _ . It’s not as though he’s committing some grave sin by existing as he is. If the Goddess is out there, really out there, he shouldn’t be getting punished for doing nothing. He should be able to grow as strong as he likes without worrying about opinion or expectation or _ whatever _.

Claude seems to get that. Claude is also so damn smart and smiley and open with him since he learned of Felix’s situation. They’d barely spoken before this! Now look at them! Both sat cross-legged on the floor of Felix’s bedroom, clumsily readjusting his shirts.

That’s another thing. Claude needed his measurements for this. He has that information now, as well. That’s too much information for anyone bar Felix himself to have.

It’s none of Claude’s business.

...Or maybe it is, because he’s using it to help Felix. That might be the worst part of it all. Claude is being _ nice _ . Being _ helpful _. He’s not laughing him off or awkwardly dancing around it. He’s not mocking him or looking upon him with disgust. He’s treating Felix as if he understands.

“...Why are you helping me?”

He shouldn’t care. He should silently accept the help and then throw Claude out as soon as humanly possible. Except no, can’t do that, because he wants to understand. Were the roles reversed, Felix would be keeping to himself. He’d assume Claude would want the same. That's what it makes sense to do. Who would want to talk about this so openly?

“Because it’s the right thing to do. I know we don’t exactly mesh great-”

Claude drops the shirt he’s working on for the sake of emphasis, smashing his hands together chaotically. Goddess, he’s reminding him of Annette. She’s always talking with her hands too.

“But this is uh, something I’ve got some expertise in. It’s rough being like us in Fódlan. We’ve gotta look out for each other where we can.”

_ Like us. _

Felix doesn’t consider them at all similar.

No. Really. Not at all.

...Apart from this.

One other thing too, perhaps.

That’s it.

From what he’s figured out, Claude is the kind of man to keep his personal business as just that - _ his _. No one else’s. No one knows where he popped up from before coming here. So for him to trust Felix of all people feels wrong. For him to happily offer up advice based on his own experiences doesn’t make sense. They’re not in the same house! They’ve fought in mock battles before! They’re only allies in the broadest sense. In this school, they’re competitors.

What’s he supposed to think?

“...If I tell you what changed. You do _ not _ \- _ you do **not** _ \- tell _ anyone _. Are we clear, Riegan?”

“Crystal.”

“...Alright.” 

Felix is going to regret this. He knows it. Feels it in his bones.

“Last weekend, on the mission before this one, I - I... got tired of it. Before you say anything, I _ know _ it’s pathetic. It’s stupid to care mid-battle. I know. ...But, I - we were setting out in the morning and some no-name merchant saw me next to Sylvain, fixing that idiot’s pauldron because he’d somehow gone and gotten it locked halfway into his breastplate, and - _ ugh _.”

And the merchant had ribbed Sylvain about even getting the girls in his class on his arm. Went on to shoot a joke Felix’s way about how careful he need be, how if he’s expecting to be Sylvain’s date for the upcoming ball he’ll be disappointed. Of course, a few choice words out of Felix’s mouth shut the guy up, but that didn’t change that it hurt. It still hurts. It’s nowhere near the first time something like this has happened.

Yes, alright, Sylvain’s bigger than him. Yes, Sylvain came out and transitioned and had full support years before him. Yes, Sylvain cared enough to take every potion and every shot and every surgery ever to get his body matching the one he should have rightfully been born with. Yes, Sylvain is physically indistinguishable from any other man.

It’s still not fair.

Claude makes a face, and right away Felix thinks he recognises pity. More salt for the wounds there. He’s ready to open his mouth again and give Claude a piece of his mind, to tell him off for daring to find him pitiable. The chance slips away when Claude pipes up first.

“Some guy you didn’t know made an assumption about you, and it ruined your week even after you corrected him.”

“If you’re going to tell me it’s ‘not worth endangering my life over,’ you can save it. I already got that lecture from Ingrid.”

“Oh no, I get it.”

Even worse, somehow!

“It’s… there’s no easy solution. I’m trying to think.”

“What do you mean by that? You said it yourself. Get some armour with a good breastplate or something.” 

Felix mimics Claude’s armour knock from yesterday, and regrets it instantly when the lightest touch hurts his chest. This recovery is going to be dreadful.

“That was some advice, yeah. It’s not a total solution. I spent a little more time thinking about that last night, and a clunky suit of armour’s not going to be great for you, right? You’re all about speed and stealth. I can kinda relate, except being on the back of a big ol’ wyvern tends to kill my need for those like, half the time.”

Brain cells. Claude has them.

“That raises the difficult question of what _ is _ a good balance for you. You’ve been fine before now because you haven’t been binding in battle, but you feel like you need to now…”

Felix never said that. He snaps back before properly thinking about his words.

“I don’t want to. I don’t _'need' _to. _ I don’t care _. I want people to know who I am, is all.”

Claude looks at him curiously. He tries to hold eye contact, and Felix shies away. He hates that, why is everyone so concerned with looking one another in the eye? It’s so uncomfortable.

“I don’t… I don’t care that my body is… this. It’s my body. I’ve honed it exactly how I like it. I just want people to shut up.”

Claude eyes him with confusion. Yeah, he doesn’t get it. Figures.

What surprises Felix is what comes next. When he's tried to explain this before, it's always questioned. No one gets it, and no one leaves it alone. Even Sylvain didn't get it, not at first.

_If your body's not the problem, why would you be a man? No man could live with such a womanly figure._

As if his figure affects anything. A man with breasts and a man that bleeds is a man as much as one that doesn't. It seems Felix is the only person that makes sense to 99% the time.

Now there's Claude, though.

“We’re different on that front, then. Personally, I can’t wait to get this all off my chest.”

He pauses for a laugh that doesn’t come. Bit awkward.

“...Aha, anyway. If you’re fine with your body, and just have a problem with other people’s perception, uh… could always try growing a beard, if you can? If you want to? I can’t wait to get one going.”

He takes what Felix says without an argument. It's a refreshing change of pace with this topic.

If only his suggestion to help was better.

“Out of the question.”

Even if he could do that (which he can’t, he’s considered it before), his family’s facial hair genes are. Bad. His father’s is laughable, and Felix has no intention of following in his legacy of bad beard attempts.

“Right, in that case, uh…”

“R… _ Claude _. You’re not going to be able to find an answer to this so quickly. It’s not that simple.”

On some level, Felix appreciates the attempt. This is the kind of thing he should share, isn’t it? He should tell people when he's grateful to them? That’s what he’s used to being told.

“...Thank you for trying.”

By the time they’re finished fixing up his wardrobe, Felix is drained. Claude is a chatterbox comparatively to him, and he hasn’t got the social energy to deal with him for so long. At the end of it Claude is unceremoniously seen off at the door, and Felix crashes onto his bed when he’s finally gone.

Okay.

Okay.

His shirts and outer robes are fit to hang looser on him now. They won’t be perfect, but they’ll serve their purpose. They’ll save Felix too many funny looks now that binding his chest is... temporarily? Permanently? Out of the question.

Speaking of which, he has the book Linhardt delivered. 

It’s a hand-written affair with a name Felix has never heard before scrawled on the cover. On the inner jacket, ‘CASPAR’ is written in all-caps, carved in deep enough that it can be felt through the other side. Yeah, that seems about right for someone so… Caspar.

He’ll read it later.

For now, he supposes he should dress, bathe, and tell the rest of the class that he’s definitely not dying of his now-healing injuries. 

Should they know that already? Oh, absolutely.

The fact that they should doesn’t mean they will.

The lions are a troublesome bunch. They’re prone to worrying about their own more often than they need. If Felix doesn’t make the effort to check in with them he’ll probably turn up to class tomorrow to find them holding a memorial service for him, or something equally as unnecessary and overblown. He can practically hear Ashe’s tearful eulogy for him.

* * *

Thankfully, he’s spared any such thing when he heads to the dining hall. 

Annette and Mercedes have been kind enough to keep him a plate on hold, and Felix wolfs the whole thing down with vigour rivalling Ingrid’s. It’s cold and unevenly cooked (at least Annette tried her best), yet after the day and a half he’s had Felix pays that no mind.

He’s fed and watered now, only left dealing with the mildest of aches and pains when he moves. That’s fine. Felix is tough, he barely notices the soreness. He barely notices that he’s holding himself stiff, somewhat hunched over to hide his form. He barely notices the group of other students who laugh behind him, because they couldn’t be laughing at _ him _. He barely notices.

Some thanks are muttered to the girls, and he hurriedly stands to leave. He’s going to train. No one’s going to talk bad about him if he’s ready to beat them to a pulp.

Once or twice, someone tries to stop him on his way. Felix ignores them, shoves them aside and keeps hustling on. There’s no time for meaningless chatter when he’s got work to do, it’s nowhere near as important.

At the training grounds he’s in his element. He has a sword in hand. _ This _ is Felix. No one can say otherwise when he’s cutting down dummy after dummy, opponent after opponent.

After a good working of his blade hand, he casts aside the sword and hones his brawling. Caspar is here, and that only makes Felix angrier. More determined. The pair of them swing and strike and wrestle, and when Felix comes out on top Caspar laughs, swearing that he’ll get him next time. He shouldn’t laugh. It’s not funny.

Caspar leaves after his defeat, making an offer to go get a meal together to celebrate a good fight that Felix ignores completely, and only a short while passes before Byleth appears. They smile and give a small wave. Felix clicks his tongue, wiping sweat from his brow. He’s not going to let them know about any of this. The last thing he needs is their sympathies.

“Too much merriment.”

There’s so much happening, so many terrible evils that seemingly loom. The students nonetheless are getting themselves hyped up for a dance of all things. Shouldn’t they focus on the bigger picture?

Shouldn’t Felix, for that matter?

“Is this the time to be throwing a ball?”

They shrug, lifting their hands to respond.

_ I don’t make the decisions. _

“Ah, whatever.”

Byleth’s gaze lingers, and they open their mouth to try and speak. Then they change their mind. Figures, as they do so often struggle. No problem, it’s not like he minds their pace or anything. 

Besides, their silence is preferable to, say, Sylvain’s blabbering or Ashe’s gushing or Ingrid’s nagging. The only thing amiss here is their repeated attempts to say something they feel their voice is worth using for. Their determination puts him on edge. It’s not like he should care when it’s probably nothing. Felix isn’t in a rush to hear it. Even so, the possibilities their delay brings make him nervous.

“You look like you’re about to say something.”

A grin spreads across Felix’s face as a stupid thought pops into his head, and he must be possessed by Sylvain’s goofy spirit for a moment when he opens his big mouth and makes a fatal mistake of a joke.

“Are you considering me as our representative for the White Heron Cup?”

They wouldn’t. There’s no way they would do this. The idea of it is absurd.

Except Byleth nods, and Felix’s face falls.

“I - I was joking.”

They stare.

“...You really couldn’t find anyone else?”

Byleth shakes their head, then signs their answer properly.

_ Ingrid told me you have experience. That, and your lithe build, make you a good candidate. You’ll make us proud. _

“I… trust you,” they add at the end in their coarse, quiet voice. “You’re the man for the job.”

He’s going to kill Ingrid, first of all.

She’s always such a goody two-shoes, she likely leapt at the chance to proudly point Byleth in his direction. A few years of ballet as a child had done him good for furthering his swordplay techniques. It doesn’t make him automatically perfect for this. It wasn’t even his idea! Not completely.

Glenn had done it. Stress relief, he’d called it at the time. And whatever his big brother did, baby Felix was eager to copy. He’d wanted to be like Glenn, and so they’d learned together, and it had stuck in Felix’s fighting style.

How annoying.

Though he’ll admit to himself, the White Heron Cup doesn’t sound_ that _ bad. Nothing about it beyond the initial shock of being selected screams ‘this is a huge mistake!’ to him, and no warnings in his head usually counts as a good sign. He’ll win, obviously. Felix doesn’t lose. It will mean more focused training, which also means less being told to sit down and rest by his friends because of his healing ribs. 

It will mean working with Byleth, too, whose training methods Felix is determined to study. He wants to know how they’re so strong, so he can beat them. This might help him with that.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” He says, trying to act nonchalant enough to mask the mild crisis he’s been going through for the last two minutes. Byleth smiles, and he rolls his eyes. “I’d better get extra credit for this or something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of inner monologue and angsting about social dysphoria this time, so that's......... fun? I'd say this is the worst of it but it won't really start improving until we hit timeskip, so strap in for another chapter or two of this.
> 
> ballet dancer felix is the hill I die on, no I can't explain it just is
> 
> this was a very claude chapter!! next one's gonna be a more linhardt chapter
> 
> I also don't know how sylvain got his pauldron stuck in his breastplate. he's talented


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix doesn't like dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! warning for some rough stuff regarding dysphoria from a nonbinary perspective, and now discussions of feeling invalid and stuff !!  
also lots of talking about death and remembrance and legacy and things like that? that was not what I was expecting to write going into this I'll be honest
> 
> dancey felix rights and nonbinary linhardt rights, thanks

Of all the students in the house, the professor has to insist that  _ he _ be Felix’s practice partner. Something he’s done recently must have really pissed the Goddess off or something, that’s the only way he can explain away his string of terrible luck.

Alternatively, Ingrid also let slip how they used to often dance as children. He prefers to blame Ingrid.

Dimitri looks nervous as Byleth leads him over to an already-agitated Felix. The fact that he’s the one making the boar nervous? That’s laughable. When it’s him and a beast such as that, Felix is the only one with the right to be nervous. The damn thing could try and tear his throat out.

A hand tries to settle at his hip. He’s not having that, and snatches it by the wrist to bring it up to his shoulder. 

“You think you’re leading, boar?” Felix sneers, lip curling in disgust. Dimitri’s ears go red.

“I had found myself under the impression that we… never mind. My apologies, Felix.”

“The impression that things would be as they were when we were small? Don’t pretend that you and that child are one and the same. I’m not so stupid as to be fooled by the lies of something like you.”

Were any other man to purposefully stamp on the crown prince’s foot, he’d likely end up tossed in a dungeon. At best. With it being Felix, Dimitri sucks in a breath and takes it in his stride.

“As I said. My apologies.”

This sort of dance has never been to Felix’s taste. Too much contact, and requiring of a partner. Bodies pressed in much too close together, with nowhere to look apart from the other’s face. At this range he can see too many details that remind him of the Dimitri he’d known before. 

Tiny freckles decorating the bridge of his nose, fainter than Ashe’s but undoubtedly there. They come out more clearly in the summer.

A long-healed scar below his right eye from an accident with a bow when they were about nine. Felix recalls the ache in his own eyes from that day, the one that came from how he’d bawled nonstop until Dimitri returned from the medics with a lump of cotton taped to his cheek and a patch over his eye. Sylvain had suggested they play pirates after that, and they’d done so every day they had together until Dimitri’s eye healed.

The way his bottom canines poke up over his lips _ just barely _ when he smiles. Glenn had teased him about it as big brothers tend to, telling him every time he smiled that he was like a little werewolf. Now Felix knows better, and knows them to be the tusks of an unruly, violent boar.

It makes him sad. Being sad makes him angry. Felix is angry again now, angry that his Dima was taken from him and replaced with this… monster, walking and talking and  _ smiling _ in his skin. Felix can’t rationalise the boy he knew becoming this shoddy approximation of a human being. This isn’t his Dimitri.

“Professor, are we done here yet?”

Felix dips Dimitri, and drops him in the grass.

“I take offence to being forced to dance with beasts.”

Dimitri rights himself, and Byleth mercifully (to him? To Felix? To both?) dismisses him.

_ Was that too much? _

There’s concern on their face. Felix sighs.

“It was  _ a lot _ , Professor.”

Byleth bows their head apologetically, to which Felix snorts and mumbles a dismissive “It’s fine,” before wandering off for his break.

He’s spared the displeasure of encountering Dimitri again, though in exchange comes the awkwardness of running into Dedue. 

Felix doesn’t speak. Felix goes so far as to try not to think. Senseless, unquestioning devotion to the boar turns his stomach. That ruins any hope of them getting along properly, and both of them know it well.

“...Felix,” comes out of nowhere, after a half minute of silently walking alongside one another. It has him blinking in surprise. Dedue speaking first is a rarity even with those that he likes. “May I ask you something?”

“You already are,” slips out as his immediate, snippy response. “But sure. Go on.”

Dedue clears his throat. Felix waits in silence.

“Your… injuries. Are they feeling better?”

Is that it?

How bothersome. He’d hoped that everyone would have forgotten about that by now - a week is a long time. There have been at least two other major incidents since Felix’s popped lung. Caspar made himself frightfully ill eating dirt, has Dedue asked him how he is? Has he asked Leonie about her horse-related concussion? Or is this sort of awkward check-in reserved just for little old Felix?

“They’re fine. You needn’t waste your time worrying for me. It was nothing.”

“A punctured lung and shattered rib are not ‘nothing.’”

Shattered feels a bit of an exaggeration.

“I’d only hoped to ensure you’re keeping safe, perhaps advise you extend your resting period.”

“They’re nothing  _ now _ , because they’re healed. Wouldn’t you rather turn these questions on the boar prince? If you don’t keep an eye on him, he might go gnawing on the training weapons or rutting the trees.” 

Dedue frowns, and Felix feels some sort of sick satisfaction at having pressed his buttons.

“What? You come to advise me, am I not allowed to offer the same in return? Go and hound the boar instead of me.”

“...Very well. One more thing, and I’ll be on my way.”

Dedue digs into his pocket. He pulls out a small cloth pouch. Felix is confused as it’s offered out to him, accepting it with a not-often-seen look of total bewilderment.

“What is-”

“An herb that should aid in swift recovery. Take it or don’t, it’s your choice. There shall be no need if you are already recovered. Still, I insist that you take them. In the event you should suffer a relapse in your recovery, or another unfortunate injury, you will have them on hand to help. The two of us not getting along the majority of the time does not change that you are one of my dear classmates. I do not wish to see you in pain, or coming to any more harm than you already have.”

Felix is stunned.

Dedue caring about his well-being doesn’t seem right. Why would he care? Why, when Felix has made his stance on Dedue’s worldview as clear as he can? This is so strange.

Not unwelcome, surprisingly enough. He opens the pouch and is hit by a scent strong enough to make his eyes water.

“...Thank you, Dedue.”

It’s the right thing to say, isn’t it? If he could, he’d wipe the shock from his face and make a more ‘Felix’ remark about the gift, but that’s proving itself to be quite the task. 

Dedue smiles at the thanks. A rare and, in the opinion of more flowery men than Felix, precious sight. He recalls whispers of people intimidated by Dedue, and can’t begin to understand why they would be.

Annoying in his devotion to the boar prince? Yes, most certainly so.

Intimidating? Not in the slightest.

For probably the first time since they’ve met, Felix and Dedue part ways on amicable terms.

Felix prepares to brew his tea in the dining hall and, when sure that no one is watching him, adds the leaves of the herb Dedue gave. The drink he gets out of it noticeably eases the ache in his ribs, and he’s thankful…? Is he thankful? He’s probably thankful.

A full afternoon of dancing, with Dimitri or otherwise, no longer seems like something he’d rather die than go through.

* * *

The White Heron Cup is as much of a pain as the practice for it, especially with his competition showing themselves to be infinitely more enthusiastic about it than he himself, yet Felix manages to narrowly snag the win. 

Dorothea feigns despair at her defeat and finds a shoulder to cry on with Ingrid, who flushes to such a degree that her whole face ends up the same pink as Hilda’s hair. The lions that aren’t having a gay crisis sing his praises (Annette doing so literally in her excitement, which he doesn’t half mind), while Lorenz concedes that the better man won. He comes offering a handshake that Felix blows off.

When the ball itself comes Felix plans on skipping it to get in more training. It turns out, however, that doing that is difficult when the training grounds are locked off for the night. Doubly difficult when his classmates catch up to him and, with Ashe locked on one arm and Annette on the other, skip merrily to the dorms where Sylvain waits with a suit he intends to stuff Felix into.

Social events are not Felix’s forte.

He makes a valiant attempt to stay skulking in the shadows at the edges of the room, turning down every girl who asks him to dance for the first hour or so, wearing his well-practiced scowl in an attempt to keep as many people away from him as possible. His misery initially keeps company as the other less-than-hyped students join him at the edges of the room. Until one by one, each of his antisocial companions are gradually coaxed into joining the festivities. Whatever.

Even Professor Byleth, who’d been content to watch the goings on with wide and childish eyes, is taken by Claude and pulled into a clumsy waltz that both parties show a complete lack of rhythm for. The chaotic dance ends when Claude dips them, and Byleth panics, and they somehow take Ignatz and a brunette Felix doesn’t know down with them as they claw for a support beyond Claude.

Felix slips out after that. The courtyard is dark, empty, perfect for him to sit alone and brood about how his training has been interrupted by this pointless ball.

“Not the dancing type, Felix?”

The words come from right behind him, and Felix whirls in a panic, cursing himself for not keeping a blade on his person. His hands will have to do, and they shoot right to the throat of -

Linhardt. Oh.

An uneasy second passes before Felix releases him. Linhardt doesn’t struggle, or scold him, or anything of the sort. He calmly smooths down his robes. Apart from his messed up collar drawing getting him chewing his lip in concentration as he works to fix it, he appears to be entirely unfazed.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” Felix tries to act calm, act like the adrenaline hasn’t got his heart half-beating out of his chest. “It could end badly for you one day.”

“I would not call that sneaking, but I digress. I am surprised to see you haven’t become the latest victim of Caspar and Petra’s…” 

Linhardt pauses, searching for a word that he doesn’t quite manage to find. Petra is a fine enough dancer on her own, but when she’d been challenged by Caspar everything had very quickly gone to hell around the two of them.

“I think I’ve danced enough for the rest of the year.” Felix says, shrugging. “Not that the professor will allow me to get away with that now. They’ve been going on and on about getting me to study it further. They think it’s ‘better’ for me or something foolish like that.”

To keep on dancing might be enjoyable. Especially when it isn’t dancing  _ with _ anyone. Not that Felix will be saying anything of the sort aloud.

“A shame. I had been  _ so _ hoping you’d save a dance for me. I’d consider it an honour, to spend time in the arms of our graceful heron.” 

Linhardt always speaks with a tone that Felix struggles to decipher. It makes everything he says sound sarcastic. Sometimes he is, and sometimes he isn’t. It’s hard to know. That’s the whole problem.

For being the one to dish it out so often, he has a tremendous struggle when it comes to figuring out other people’s derision.

“Did you come out here to mock me, then?” Felix accuses. “I’m not sure that’s the wisest move, Linhardt.”

“Because you could smash me into tiny pieces if I should provoke you into attacking? While that would be an excellent opportunity to study if your emotional state affects the activation of your Crest, I would much prefer you restrain yourself. Violence is the last thing I want.”

Linhardt smiles. It looks sincere enough, but...

“Then you were serious?” He says back, trying with all his might to discern if he’s somehow massively misinterpreting things. “I-”

“If you do not want to, then may we chat instead?”

What is going on?

What’s he meant to do here?

The answer is, apparently, to defiantly step into Linhardt’s personal space and take him by the hip. He continues to smile. What else is Felix to do? It was a challenge. He’ll rise to it.

“No. We’ll dance.”

“...You know I said that in jest, right?”

Oh! So he had been mocking him.

Oh no.

How unfairly confusing! Felix backs off right away, turning his face away from Linhardt to hide the blush he can feel blooming across his skin. The nerve Linhardt has, to embarrass him like this!

He hears light laughter. Now Felix’s whole face is hot, and it’s unclear if it’s from the embarrassment or the anger.

“Had you sincerely thought that  _ I _ of all people would be interested in dancing?” Linhardt says it as if it should be obvious. Why would Felix have picked up on that? Just because Linhardt has only two real interests and is notoriously lazy and - okay yeah, no, maybe he should have picked up on that. “My friend, you wound me with how little you know of me.”

“Shut  _ up. _ ”

“If you genuinely  _ do _ wish to dance-”

“I said shut up, Linhardt!”

A sigh.

“A change of subject, then. Have you found the time to read through that book I lent you? Its owner will be needing it back soon, he’s… not the best at remembering things without having them hammered in fairly frequently.”

Felix sucks in a breath through his teeth, attempting to calm his rage. This topic is more important and should be spoken of, no matter how much he’d rather never talk about it again. It doesn’t help his burning temper to have it brought up, however.

“I haven’t read it yet. I’ve been busy.” Dancing. And training. And generally trying to avoid thinking of his own body, because that leads right into the unpleasant reminder that other people think about his body. “If Caspar needs it back that badly, he can take it.”

“How-” Linhardt starts, then stops. “The fool wrote his name in it, didn’t he.”

“More etched it into it, but yes.”

There’s an uncomfortable quiet as Linhardt thinks. Then, with another heavy sigh and a shake of his head, he says “About right for him. I did warn him not to, but he’s - he’s Caspar.”

He sure is.

They walk after that. Never straying far enough that the music from the ball is completely silenced. They walk the grounds with agitating aimlessness, and Felix has no idea why he goes along with it.

“I’m not a man,” Linhardt says out of nowhere. “Not completely. Not a woman, either. Not at all.”

Why it’s coming up now, Felix doesn’t know.

He’s thankfully not so clueless as to miss what Linhardt is telling him. The timing of it? Yeah, that’s confusing him quite a bit. But genders beyond the binary are something he knows a little of.

When Byleth had come to Garreg Mach, they’d quickly established themselves as being neither man nor woman. Some students were unfamiliar with the concept, yet it was quickly accepted without much fuss from anyone. Whenever questioned about it unreasonably, the professor had flatly refused to give answers. Felix liked that. Respected it.

Linhardt’s phrasing makes it sound like he's a little different from Byleth, though.

Now he's not looking at Felix. He’s got his hands on the wall, gripping tightly and staring into the foggy abyss that spreads out below the monastery. What Felix can see of his face looks calm as ever, but his knuckles are whiter than usual. His hands shake, too. Whatever his face may try to tell Felix, Linhardt’s body language betrays his nerves.

“Okay,” starts Felix, hopping up onto the wall Linhardt grips. He swivels himself around so that his legs dangle over the edge. This is stupidly dangerous to do at this time of night, alone with one person, with no adults or fliers around. Oh well. “So… do you want to be called something else, or-?”

“Oh, no. Linhardt is a strong name. He and him are convenient most of the time. It is not as immediately urgent as most’s needs, I am fully aware of that. Getting it off my chest felt quite nice, is all.”

Ah. Alright.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Caspar. I didn’t wish to subject him to a difficult thought session, however, so… he perhaps doesn’t fully get it.”

Caspar is like them (ooh, look at him, grouping himself in with other people now), and yet has about as many thoughts a year as a carrot. Felix understands not having the energy to explain oneself to someone like him, even if he has the best of intentions as a friend.

“I’ve been… nervous to speak of it to anyone else until now. I know it to be silly, that feeling, yet it will not allow itself to be shaken. My woes on this topic feel so trivial in comparison to everyone else’s. In spite of logically knowing that, they nevertheless remain woes that I have.”

That’s far too familiar a feeling. Felix stays quiet.

“When…” Linhardt swallows, hesitant, but eventually forces himself to continue on. “When we were taken out to our first true battle. When I had to… kill… for the first time. I saw that bandit’s body fall, and I thought to myself, ‘What a grim end. This poor woman.’ And I realised.  _ I _ certainly had no way of verifying that. You can hardly stop a fight for your life to ask your attacker’s pronouns.”

Felix bites back a comment about how who mere bandits are can’t possibly matter. They’re trying to kill you. In what way have they earned respect? Linhardt needn’t care. It’s nothing. Nothing at all.

It’s difficult not to speak his mind. Something manages to let him know that it’s really not the time for his opinion yet, and so he holds his tongue. As a distraction, he picks up a stone from beside him on the wall and flings it down into the mist below.

“It made me think that one day, Goddess forbid, I may fall in battle. And I would have my body declared that of a Crest-bearing male. I didn’t like the thought.” 

Felix can and can’t relate. 

When he’s dead, he’ll be lifeless meat and weary bones. Not Felix anymore. All traces of him as he knows himself to be will be gone from the world. It would be nice to leave a legacy - something like ‘Fódlan’s greatest swordsman,’ that has a nice ring to it. 

...The thought that his body would be found and identified as a woman, though, is  _ annoying _ . 

“When I’m gone, I will be gone. The dead cannot feel. I won’t be an exception to that, and that makes it quite a pointless fear… yet the thought of my life, my thoughts, my _ self _ being reduced to what physical remains I can leave behind frightens me. Terribly so.”

Sharing this with him is brave of him. Still, Felix can’t see why in the world Linhardt would choose  _ him _ to open up to.

He searches himself for the words he should respond to Linhardt with. It’s tough. Felix is not a comforting presence. Felix is a thousand swords shaped into a man. Felix…

Felix barely deals with his own gender-related issues, he shouldn’t be trusted with those of other people.

“...Those bandits, regardless of their identity, were villains. You cut them down in defence of yourself. That doesn’t discount their lives, but they’re no more. They can’t, won’t care what we say of their corpses.” He says it slow, finding that he doesn’t buy a word of his own attempted comfort. “...And you, regardless of what may be found remaining of yourself when you die, are Linhardt.”

Felix rolls himself off of the wall, back onto the ground. Linhardt looks about ready to have a heart attack with how close he comes to flinging himself from the edge; it’s plain to see that Felix has scared him as much as he had Felix before. Good, they’re even.

“That’s... a unique perspective. I will... do what I can to keep it in mind. Thank you, Felix.” Linhardt yawns, rubs at his eyes, and drowsily adds on “I should perhaps be getting myself back to my room. Thinking about these things truly does take it out of you.”

It doesn't seem like Felix has helped that much. It's another difficult talk in a string of difficult talks. He should let Linhardt go, and they'll never have to speak of this again now that Linhardt knows it's a bad idea to talk to him about it. That doesn't fix the problem of the depressing mood left in the air after all the talk of death, and identity, and death of identity.

...There is something that could remedy that before they part ways.

Felix eyes Linhardt.

He should leave it alone. He should really leave it alone.

“Not interested in that dance at all, then?”

He hates dancing with other people. Can’t stand it.

Quite likes Linhardt, though.

"I've told you already. I'm not one for strenuous activity, which dancing undoubtedly counts as." Despite his words, Linhardt smiles again and offers Felix his hand. He makes no attempt to hold eye contact. That's appreciated. “I suppose I’ll take you up on it, just this once.”

Inside, the ball continues on as lively as ever. 

Outside, distant from anyone else, Linhardt and Felix share a dance to the dull echoes of the music. It's not perfect, but it's entertaining. Felix wonders if this means they're properly friends now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Sylvain do some snooping.

Captain Jeralt is buried beside Byleth’s mother.

Byleth themselves is, quite understandably, near-inconsolable for the first week. Even Felix has enough of a heart not to go bothering them to spar. Instead, all his efforts go toward learning as much as he can about the situation. Knowing what to expect from whoever the enemy are will be unquestionably useful.

The problem there is that all the Knights of Seiros are out searching, and the messenger scouts sent back with reports are so few and far between and so often only coming with requests for more soldiers or something, that learning anything remotely useful from them is an impossible task.

Felix is frustrated.

The feeling of frustration sticks with him for most of the month, as fewer and fewer messengers come by (or possibly the same amount come, and they’ve all changed their routes to avoid being cornered by him) and the flow of new information on the enemy dwindles from a tiny drip every few days to nothing at all. Nothing, which means there’s nothing to do apart from return to his schedule of training.

Now there’s a few changes to it. He trains. Then he takes a break, sitting in the classroom with Sylvain or Ingrid or Annette and going over his thoughts on what’s going on. He must bicker with Ingrid a hundred times over whether it’s better to pursue the attackers with full force or halve the army so that the monastery stays safe. Each time, too, it seems they both switch sides. It’s hard to know which is really the right choice. In the evenings, he returns to his room and thumbs through that book. Makes no use of its suggestions, but learns them. It’s good to have them should he ever need them.

The third week in, he returns the book to Caspar and finds a new eveningtime task - taking Sylvain and investigating Dimitri. Sylvain says he hasn’t noticed, but Felix has. Something’s wrong with the boar prince, and it isn’t the usual underlying hatred. Dangerously, whatever is wrong seems to have chipped away a little at his human mask. Felix is worried by that.

“So uh, why is it that we can’t just ask His Highness what’s wrong? Your thing with him aside.” 

Felix scowls, before indignantly replying “It’s not a _ thing _. Don’t call it a thing. It’s not.”

Because it’s not a thing. It’s completely justified wariness. There’s nothing wrong with how he behaves. Sylvain’s an idiot that he can’t see that. That’s all it is.

“And we’re not asking him because he’s not going to answer honestly. We’ll get something like ‘oh no, it is nothing, do not worry for me!’ and he won’t budge on that. Nothing useful will come from asking.”

“You can’t be sure that's what'll happen!” Sylvain argues.

Ignorant as ever.

“I can be, and I am. All that asking will do is tip him off that we want to know. That will lead to him being wary of our presence. We don’t want that.” Felix knows Dimitri. ...Not Dimitri, Dimitri is gone. This dark and ugly thing masquerading as him manages a decent imitation, that’s all. It will behave just the same. Dimitri wouldn’t want to share his woes.

Which is why when the coast is clear the pair of them go snooping in Dimitri’s bedroom. Felix wants to find something that will point them towards figuring it out. A diary, a hastily-scribbled note, a bloodied weapon, _ anything _. Whatever will give him more information.

Felix digs around and leaves chaos in his wake. Sylvain tails him around the room, putting everything back where it was originally. Annoying as it is to lack a second pair of hands searching, there’s no point leaving a huge mess. All it’s going to do is tell Dimitri more quickly that someone’s been in here.

“Sylvain, look at this.” Felix pulls a book from a low drawer. Strung to its spine by a worn ribbon there is a dagger. “This isn’t normal.”

“Man, how old is that thing? It looks like it’s in a real shoddy state. Hey, isn’t it weird how it’s always daggers Dimitri gets all sentimental about? ‘Cause like, it sure looks like this one means something to him, and-”

The doorknob rattles.

Both boys stare.

Felix acts first and acts quickly, dropping to the floor flat on his back with the book and dagger both pressed tightly to his chest. He then rolls himself right under Dimitri’s bed, abandoning Sylvain. It’s a move he almost immediately regrets, but it’s done now and he’ll have to live with it.

Sylvain, meanwhile… Sylvain kicks the drawer Felix was searching shut, and tries to act casual. Stupid as he can seem, he’s already coming up with an explanation for himself that he’ll be able to convince Dimitri of with ease.

“Sylvain?” sounds Dimitri’s confused voice.“What… are you doing in here? You are aware that this is my room, yes?”

“Your Highness!” Sylvain laughs awkwardly. Felix swears he’s about to blow it for a second.

He should have more faith.

“So uh, remember that little deal we had going?”

“No?” This is it, Felix thinks. He’s about to throw Sylvain out and then Felix will be trapped under the bed until he eventually leaves again. There’s silence that Felix knows well enough to be brought about by Sylvain chewing on his bottom lip as he thinks on his next words. It’s not all dust and cobwebs in that pretty little head of his. 

“Wow, you have a short memory. You came in my room and were hiding from a girl ‘cause you’d tried to ask her out, and-”

What? What girl? This is the first Felix is hearing about this.

“You do not need to bring that up…!” The boar sounds embarrassed now. Felix can easily picture Dimitri, ears and cheeks and the tip of his nose bright red, trying and failing to hide his blushing face in his hands, long hair flopping down over his eyes -

No, no longer. Because his hair is not long and his eyes are not innocent and he’s not the same boy. It’s been getting unreasonably hard to hold onto that fact recently.

“I do, though!” Sylvain’s voice is smooth, faultless. With a light laugh, he goes on to ‘clarify.’ “That’s why I’m here. You’re returning the favour. I’m hiding from a girl. Well, three girls. And a guy. Not all for the same reason, before you get any ideas. Ingrid’s going to want my head ‘cause I dumped all my stable duties on her, Felix is out there hunting me down because I miiight’ve… well uh, it doesn’t matter. And then the other girls-”

“That’s enough, Sylvain.” 

Dimitri sighs, deep and disappointed and more than a tad irritated. It’s the same sigh that Felix breathes around Sylvain at least once a day, and hearing his friend lie so naturally makes him wonder what secrets he may be keeping from him. What falls he may have taken for other friends, fully prepared to use Felix’s soft spot for him to lessen the brunt of his anger. 

...Sylvain’s a good guy. Sometimes.

Felix isn’t going to admit it out loud.

“Look, just lemme wait it out in here for an hour or two, and then-”

He’s cut off very suddenly. Felix has to wonder if the boar’s tired of acting human and just ran him through with his lance. Then he banishes the thought because no, that would never be it. Sylvain’s perfectly fine, just… quiet.

“...We’ve been through this,” Dimitri says, speaking slow with poorly-concealed irritation. 

Okay! Maybe Sylvain is going to die after all.

“Sylvain, you cannot continue-”

“Hey now, you said that you’d help me when the time came!”

How deep does he intend to dig himself into this hole?

“_ Sylvain. _” Quiet again. He’s doomed. Dimitri’s getting ready to unleash… whatever reaction Sylvain’s false problem is prompting from him. “It is immoral of you to behave in such - such… Sylvain, what are you - what are you looking at?”

Felix holds his breath. If Sylvain sells him out now then it will be fair, and even so he’d still much prefer to get away with this unseen. Maybe he should have been using his time under here to glance through the book properly. Hindsight and all that.

“My most sincere apologies, Your Highness. I simply can’t help myself, I mean… your eyes.”

What?

“They are so piercing and harsh in your fury, yet your good intentions for me shine through. I am… touched by your virtue. Your concern for even a layabout skirtchasing rapscallion such as me. Your inner beauty, I could say. It shows itself through those eyes. Windows to the soul, they say. Then you must have the most beautiful soul of us all. I’ll admit, I’ve found myself moved here in uh, unexpected ways.”

“...What?”

_ What? _

“I know, this must seem so out of the blue! I ah, I know it must seem like I’m trying to use this to distract you too. I know. And I know that, with me being so set in my ways, you may think this flattery is just some game to me. But, um… nope.”

Sylvain goes on, buttering Dimitri up with more and more carefully-chosen compliments. With each new one, Dimitri stammers another fraction of a word. This would be incredibly entertaining if it were any other two people. Since it’s these guys, however, Felix feels weird. It’s not a weird feeling he can identify, either. Just some nameless sensation of wrong. Also… warm. His face has gone all hot from listening to this.

There isn’t time right now to unpack whatever this is right now.

The creak of the bed above him gets Felix holding his breath again. He can see Dimitri’s legs, and Sylvain stepping in closer. What the heck. What the _ heck _.

“Your Highness. Prince Dimitri. May I be so bold as to…?”

They’re both quiet. If Felix moved a single muscle right now, he’d make Dimitri aware of his presence. This is more tense than he’s ever felt on the battlefield, closer to screaming than he’s ever felt with a blade in his gut, or with an arrow in his shoulder, or even with the flames conjured by a mage lapping at his flesh.

Then, Dimitri makes an ‘mhm’ sound. Sylvain takes another step forward, leaning forward over the bed, pressed up onto tiptoes. There’s another gentle creak of the bedframe from what he assumes must be Sylvain’s hand touching down. Felix realises then that they’re - well, they’re kissing.

Felix realises that Sylvain and Dimitri are kissing.

Huh. He’d always assumed Dimitri was straight. Go figure.

An awkward few seconds go by that feel like hours to Felix, and then his friends (or well, friend and greatest foe) above him part, and Sylvain backs away.

“Hah, uh, sorry about that! Your… Highness, I should um, I should be going, yeah? I’ll go hide in uh, in Ashe’s room insteadokaybye-!”

Sylvain bolts for the door. He disappears out into the hall, and Felix can hear his heavy footfalls echoing down through the dorms. Dimitri stands and, sounding pretty damn flustered, goes chasing after him.

A moment passes by. Then another. Then, Felix tucks the book and the dagger into his waistcoat, and he slips out of Dimitri’s room and back into his own.

“...What the hell just happened?”

There’s no one in the room who can answer him.

* * *

“Come _ on _ , Felix. You expect me to believe you’ve _ never _ thought about kissing Dimitri?”

Sylvain is rewarded for that little comment by having the weed Felix has just pulled lobbed at his head. He laughs it off, gently tossing it back. Felix catches it and throws it in the bag with the rest, because throwing it a second time wouldn’t make his point any stronger. 

Damn Sylvain, damn him.

“That wasn’t a no.”

“Of all the stupid, thoughtless, completely baffling choices I’ve seen you make in my time, this really takes the cake, Sylvain.”

Although Dimitri and him have apparently profusely apologised to one another for their moment, and Sylvain insists it was nothing, nothing beyond a distraction (“It worked, didn’t it? And it was pretty great too. If you wanna go sneaking in there again, Felix…”), Felix finds himself irrationally annoyed at how things played out. He got the book, got the dagger, has the time to find out the boar’s secrets and return it while he’s still in class this afternoon, and no one aside from he and Sylvain need know.

Still, he’s annoyed.

Sylvain talking about it more annoys him further.

“What do you want me to say? ‘I’m sorry for being the king of genius strategies?’”

“Prince-consort. Should you marry the future king, you will be a prince-consort. Probably not of genius strategies.”

“Hey!” Sylvain is going all pouty now, which is a clear sign Felix has managed to strike a nerve about _ something _. Good. “Come on, you know me. I’ve kissed basically every girl in the school! Couple of the guys, too. This was nothing but another day on the job.”

Every girl… doubt.

“Most ‘days on the job’ don’t end with the potential for execution, do they? Not your job, anyway. Not until now.” Felix flashes a cruel grin when Sylvain squirms. He loves messing with him like this. That might be a little too far, but for some reason it feels good to do this now. “Such a shame! I think most prefer that pretty little head of yours on your shoulders.”

“Felix, he’s not gonna - why, did he say something?” Satisfied with his work, Felix hikes the bag of weeds over his shoulder and walks away. A very whiny Sylvain trails after him. “That’s really not funny, you know! It’s like you said. Most people prefer my head where it is. Do you know how great a loss it would be if I died? At least… two people would care!”

It’s surely a joke, right? Something about it stings, but it must be a joke.

“You think the boar’s going to have you put to death for being soft with him? Really, I thought you liked to defend him.”

Felix stops abruptly, spins to face Sylvain, and shoves the bag of weeds into his hands.

“Take care of these. I’m going to learn just what that beast is hiding. If he comes toward the dorms, distract him. I’m trusting you.”

He shouldn’t. The rest of the house should be in bow class right now. Dimitri will be snapping training bows left and right, and Professor Byleth will be watching with that blank look they get sometimes. A lot of the time. Most of the time.

Point is, Dimitri should be occupied, and Felix should be able to look through the book he’s purloined without interruption.

_ Should _ being the operative word there, for when he reaches his room, the door is open a crack.

Now, Felix is a private man. He keeps to himself, and doesn’t tend to share the details of his personal life with even his closest allies. He _ never _ leaves his door unlocked when he’s not in there, let alone open.

A sword is drawn from his belt, and Felix creeps silently toward the door. One step at a time. Careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard that gets stepped on almost every day by other students, much to his annoyance. Sword raised. There’s a moment where he holds his breath, then he kicks the door open and leaps inside, blade swinging right for the throat of -

Claude.

Felix has to jerk his arm painfully to interrupt the swing, and takes out a candle that had been stood on his bedside in the process.

“Claude - _ what _ are you doing in here?!”

Claude’s thrown his hands up defensively, dropping the thing he’d been skimming through when Felix first came crashing in. With a quick glance, Felix sees that the thing was Dimitri’s book.

“Would, uh, would you believe me if I said I came to get some notes from Seteth’s lance class that I missed last week?”

Felix doesn’t lower his sword. Instead, it’s used to shepherd Claude away from the wall he’d been leaning against, over to the bed. “Sit,” he says. Claude warily follows the order. Felix grabs the book from where it’s fallen, pulling it to his chest protectively. The dagger’s come undone and still lays on the ground. What a pain.

“Why - no, first thing’s first. _ How _ did you know I had this. Second, why are you in here reading it?”

“Could we stop with the pointing a sharp thing at me before I get talking? You’re making me extremely nervous.”

With a huff, Felix lowers the sword. It remains unsheathed should he need it, but Claude is no longer actively threatened with stabbing. He’d better appreciate it.

“Thanks. Alright. I know you have it, ‘cause I saw you leaving Dimitri’s room with it. He and Sylvain weren’t exactly quiet when they went running down the hall. Can’t expect a guy not to investigate when he sees something like that.”

Felix’s first thought is how he can’t begin to understand how one can be so nosy. Then he thinks and oh, yeah, based on his suspicions around the boar prince alone he snuck into his room and stole his belongings. That’s no better than what Claude’s doing right now.

“Aaaand, I’m in here reading it in case it was important. We’re in crisis right now, you know it as well as I do. And do forgive me, but you’re not the most open of men, Felix. If you’d found something about Jeralt’s killer, I didn’t think you’d feel like telling me. So… here I am.”

“You really think I’d keep important information like that from people? There are lives at stake. For all we know those bastards are still in the school somewhere, hiding like Monica and Tomas. Solon. Whatever we’re calling him now. If I had information, even I would share it with Seteth or the professor or _ someone _.” He’s raising his voice. It might be unnecessary. Though with lives on the line, knights running off to their deaths against an enemy they know nothing about, students and war orphans and merchants alike fearful to leave their quarters… It’s not the time for hiding things.

“...And I’ve not had the time to read through it, that’s why I’m here now.”

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh.

“In that case,” starts Claude, patting the bed beside him invitingly. “I suggest we both take a quick lookie-look through it. Books with knives tied to them don’t usually indicate anything good.”

Is looking through it alongside Claude a good idea? Felix can’t say one way or the other. His loathing for Dimitri doesn’t change that he expects nothing particularly incriminating to him specifically. If there is something, anything, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

That’s not a good feeling, the fear of finding evidence that will potentially have your ex-friend executed by the church. What should he do if that happens? Threaten Claude? Kill him? No, not an option. Take the fall? Not a chance. Perhaps that would have been what Glenn would do, a dirtier part of his ‘knightly duty.’

Sickening.

Without a word, Felix sheaths his sword and joins Claude on the bed. The book is opened up. Both men read stare.

A diary.

“You stole his diary…” Claude mutters, furrowing his brow at Felix with definitely-fake disappointment.

“Don’t give me that.”

Claude snickers. Rolling his eyes, Felix flips through the pages and seeks out the beginning of this month.

> _ I’ve found her dagger. _
> 
> _ I must be mistaken, yes? _
> 
> _ Byleth and I almost caught those monsters. They escaped because of Byleth’s hesitation. I cannot find it in me to blame them fully. Despite that, I know in the depths of my foul and shameful soul that if they had not stopped me I would have torn the Flame Emperor’s head from his wicked shoulders. _
> 
> _ His? _
> 
> _ My finding at their meeting site, this old and filthy dagger I keep with me here, is unmistakably the parting gift I gave her. Worn and rusted as it may be now, I recognise it. Even the crude carving I left in it remains. _
> 
> _ Edelgard. My El. Old friend, dear sister. What have you done? Are you being threatened, does the Flame Emperor hold you hostage? _
> 
> _ Are you on his side? _
> 
> _ Is ‘he’ you? _
> 
> _ I don’t want to believe that would be the case, but the presence of this blade… What am I to think? _
> 
> _ This headache has persisted since we saw Jeralt fall to Monica. It grows worse every passing hour. Dedue insists I rest. How am I to do that with such horrors looming? I shall rest when I am sufficiently assured my friends are safe. _

Dimitri is not guilty. It doesn’t ease Felix’s nerves as much as he would’ve hoped.

The idea that Edelgard, the _ Adrestian princess _ of all people, could be an enemy is a terrifying thought. What would happen to Fódlan if she was an enemy of the church? To fight, to grow stronger, that is how Felix lives. War would benefit such a lifestyle. Yet the cost of innocent life would never be worth it. He won’t admit it aloud, but he’ll gladly take a lifetime of peace that won’t scratch his itch for battle over the deadly turmoil and disgusting senselessness of war. Enough is already lost when life is peaceful.

Sylvain’s frantic shouts from down the hall tear him from his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> change of pace with this chapter! less angsting, more shenanigans. this..... won't last, haha
> 
> we're still a gen fic for now folks, sylvain just kisses people sometimes, it happens.  
the implications of bi sylvain can play into some :/ stereotypes considering his behaviour, but at least our nasty lad's not the only bi on the table with linhardt, claude, mercie, byleth, and dimitri in the mix fairly often too. maybe a few others as well. garreg mach is full of bi people
> 
> when we hit timeskip it might be the time to add some relationship tags, I'm not sure yet
> 
> dima usually starts his diary entries with some variation of 'dear diary' trust me, he's just had a stressful time this month


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Sylvain talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings! we've got misgendering, we've got misogyny relating to sylvain's womanising, we've got homophobia, we've got more violence and injuries, we've got lots of garbage father talk, and we've got vague discussion of sex and genitals
> 
> I don't think anyone had fun this chapter except maybe linhardt, and lin isn't in this chapter

Claude pokes his head out into the hallway to check what all the noise is about. Sylvain smashes straight into him, and both of them end up on the floor. Falling right on that awful, creaking floorboard that screeches in protest at their weight too. Painful to Felix’s ears.

“Dimitri is coming,” huffs Sylvain, winded.

“He said - said class was expecting us back, like half an hour ago, and Lorenz said when he went to the bathroom he saw us coming to the dorms, so the professor sent Dimitri - sent Dimitri to come get us ‘cause we’re not meant to be slacking, and - he’s coming.”

Sylvain sounds disgusting when he’s out of breath.

“Uh, he’s not coming,” says Claude, still trying to shove Sylvain off of him. “He’s here.”

Getting ever-closer, Felix hears Dimitri calling out to them, scolding them for skipping class. Moving fast he takes the book and hides it in the first place that seems it'll work, stuffing it under the covers of his bed.

“Fellows, I do not know what in the world the three of you are up to in here during lesson time. Professor Byleth has made it clear that if you are not doing your work, you must return to class as soon as possible. ...Why are you on the ground?”

“Why aren’t you?” is Claude’s peculiar answer. Dimitri doesn’t seem to know what to do with that response, and so gives nothing in return and steps into Felix’s room.

“I know that you’ve already proven your skill with the bow, but I highly doubt that more practice could turn detrimental. It is still well worth your energy!”

Dimitri sounds so cheerful, so genuine and well-intentioned and kind. It turns Felix’s stomach. It only gets worse when he realises that he never hid the fucking dagger. The dagger is still on the ground. The distinctive dagger that Dimitri had recognised when dropped by the Flame Emperor. Adding fear of discovery into the cocktail of things he’s feeling makes Felix’s stomach lurch hard enough that he’s sure he’s going to bring his breakfast back up right onto His Highness’s shoes.

“Claude, you of course are free to do whatever you like, that is your choice. It is simply as another house leader that I cannot allow my men to slack in their training. It would be improper, and… and…”

Perhaps Dimitri hasn’t noticed it. Maybe he’ll look right past it, thinking it a carelessly placed weapon of Felix’s. He can hope to get away with it like that, but… no. His eyes are fixed on it. The back of Felix’s neck grows hot.

“...Felix.” Dimitri is shaking, just slightly. It’s too late. He’s seen it, and he’s angry. That must be it. Felix rarely sees this beast’s anger off of the battlefield. He knows it. Knows that despite his trouble emoting, that’s what has to sit behind Dimitri’s look of mild surprise. His lips slither and writhe up into an uncomfortable smile. Felix doesn’t like where this is going. “Why do you have that?”

Dimitri picks up the dagger from where it lays, and stares expectantly at Felix.

Felix rolls his eyes, tries to uncaringly brush it off like he would any other thing Dimitri would say to him. It doesn’t work this time, not when he sneers “I don’t know. What do you care?” and Dimitri catches him by the wrist, holding eye contact with him. It’s bad. Bad, bad, bad. He hates this, and there’s no out. There’s no out.

“Felix,” he says more firmly. “This dagger was in my room. Why is it here? Did you take this from me?”

The silence Dimitri gets provides a far more honest answer than words from any of this crime trio could.

“I... And my journal? Have you taken that too? They were together, and now they are not.”

Felix shrugs Dimitri off of his arm. There’s little to do now beyond coming clean, so that’s exactly what he does. The book he’d frantically hidden barely two minutes earlier is pulled from its hiding place, and Dimitri laughs without a hint of humour.

“I can’t believe you’d do this.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a beat, as if forcing yet-unfallen tears back. Then a glance to Sylvain still trying to untangle himself from Claude. Sylvain looks away sheepishly, another silent confession to Dimitri, this one revealing that his move from earlier in the week was a part of this. Dimitri sighs. This has to be a horrible situation for him.

Even so, he’s not yelling, which is maybe the worst part. Felix is prepared to be yelled at. Screamed at, threatened, called out for theft and such. He’s not prepared for this display.

...This boar’s human act is impressive when he sets his mind to it.

“You know that you wouldn’t have told us anything if we’d asked. We -  _ I _ had to make sure-”

“That I was not a threat?” Comes out with a crack. He’s no longer got that aggressive undertone, sounding feeble and wounded now while cradling the dagger like something precious. Felix realises that  _ oh _ , it  _ is _ something precious. It means so much to Dimitri. Dimitri who smiles as best as he can while speaking the rest of his pitiful answer. “You think me an unruly monster at heart, don’t you Felix? You always have been good at that, at… seeing my truths. I suppose when approached like that, I cannot condemn your actions. You’ve behaved underhandedly, yet justly in intention. My friend, I shall not hold you in contempt for this… though I must insist on taking what is mine back.”

Dimitri deftly plucks the diary from Felix’s hands and, with an acknowledging nod to where Sylvain and Claude are finally getting their acts together, he speedwalks his way back up the hall and out of the dorms. The three men remaining can only watch him go in stunned silence.

“That could’ve gone better,” says Claude. “Probably should’ve… anticipated something like that.”

“How, Claude? How would we anticipate that?” 

Felix loses his temper. With empty hands balling into fists he lunges at Claude, gripping him by the collar and snarling in his face. 

He’s beyond reasonable discussion of what’s happening, so Claude’s joke? It’s a given it leads him to this. He can’t take it right now. Felix stares Claude down, discomfort brought about by his friend’s eyes meeting his only feeding his anger as he spits his words in Claude’s face. 

“I set Sylvain up to keep watch for him, expecting I’d be in and out in five minutes or so. Which would’ve been the case had you not broken in here and ruined it all. Now the boar… not only is he going to lose any trust he has in either of us -  _ which could be deadly on the battlefield when it’s with someone like him _ \- now he’s not going to open up further about this. If he learns more, he’ll keep it to himself. We’ll have no way to get it out of him, so - why? Why are you like this, Claude?”

Felix shoves him away, storming back into his bedroom with no real objective other than to rage. This situation was one of his own making. He set this up. He blundered and took too long. It’s his mistake. However if Claude wasn’t so happy to invite himself into Felix’s problems, if Claude wasn’t such a sneaky, nosy bastard, then things would have been fine. Everything could have been fine. And now it’s not.

“You’re not the only one who thought he wouldn’t open up,” is Claude’s argument as he works to adjust and smooth his crumpled collar. “And he’s not the only one _I_ expected not to open up. I did what I needed when I noticed both you and Dimitri acting weird, so don’t go blaming me for-”

“Get out of here already, won’t you?!” Felix’s hands shoot out again, this time grabbing for the nearest object in the room that’s not nailed down.

Claude ducks and dodges the book hurled at his head. It hits Sylvain’s shoulder instead, and Sylvain responds with whines about how it hurts to an audience of exactly zero people who care.

“ _ No _ , I wouldn’t open up to you. You know why that is, Claude von Riegan? You know? It’s because we barely know each other! I could count the number of times we’ve actually spoken on my fingers, maybe only the fingers on one hand. We have nothing in common, no matter what you might think. You aren’t entitled to every detail of my life just because you helped me out once, twice,  _ whatever. _ ”

A breath to try and calm himself turns out to do nothing at all.

Well, apart from giving Claude a moment to butt in and interrupt his ranting.

“I wasn’t thinking I was. Felix, you’re not as difficult to read as you might believe yourself to be.” Oh, now he’s being insulted? “As I said, I knew you wouldn’t open up. Because we’ve hung out. I’ve seen that you don’t like to talk about yourself, and that’s okay! I didn’t help you because I wanted something from you, I helped you because we’re in the same boat here. And this-”

“No. No, no, no. No. No! Learning something about me that I didn’t want you to know doesn’t mean we have some sort of solidarity! What, you think we’re special, like brothers-in-arms just because we both have tits?” Whether the shouting is getting to him or the crude words have brought him an unneeded, unpleasant reminder, Claude winces. Felix goes on. “We are  _ not _ the same! I don’t want your help, or your pity, or your interference, or anything else. I want you to leave me  _ alone _ . You had no right to come into my bedroom, Riegan. You had no right to screw everything up. You don’t know me like I know that beast in man’s skin. You don’t get to do this. Not now, not ever. You stay out of my room. You stay out of my _life_. It's not. Your. Business. Got it?”

Claude looks like he’ll bite back with something. He doesn’t. He stays quiet, carefully planning his response. Always the schemer.

Calmly and politely, he bows his head in concession of defeat, and speaks. Some fights aren’t worth winning.

“...Right. You’re right, Felix. I shouldn’t have come around bothering you.”

He backs off further, turning his back on Felix and Sylvain. A last reply is spoken over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Rest assured, you won’t have to worry about it happening again. I haven’t got the time to waste on stuff like this. I’d thought that I would be able to help someone with problems just like mine while also learning some vital intelligence, but  _ clearly _ I was mistaken. We really don’t have anything in common, do we?” He smiles in that way that he always does, the way where it doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes. “See you in class, lions.”

And Claude leaves them.

Sylvain picks up the book Felix had flung, smooths out its bent pages, returns it to where it belongs without a fuss. On some level it’s appreciated, though with Felix being so himself, he says nothing to him about it. They sit in silence, side by side on the bed for a while until he finally finds it in him to pipe up.

“That could have gone better, I’d say.”

Sylvain snorts.

“You don’t say. Pretty sure His Highness won’t be speaking to me again for a year or two. Maybe not even ‘til we get back here for the millennium festival.”

“In fairness, you  _ did _ string the wretched boar along like one of your evening girls.” Felix tries not to care about Sylvain’s ‘activities.’ When the idiot decides to recount a tale of the latest girl he’s fallen for to him, his responses range from disinterest to poorly-disguised disgust. Telling-offs about this topic have never been his style, mostly down to him not quite knowing how to approach it in a meaningful way that doesn’t end with insults. Good-for-nothing, skirt-chaser, pervert, whore. All have left Felix’s lips at one time or another. Insatiable, that’s the latest one he’s gone with. He's not Ingrid. He can't teach a lesson on this stuff.

He’s considered apologising for the constant verbal abuse, honest, it's just that Sylvain continues to prove him right. He’s not the one to owe apologies. While he doubts the sincerity of Dimitri’s hurt as a real, deep-down pain, and he doesn’t care too much for the ladies Sylvain continues to pick up and put down, he’s not stupid enough to see it as harmless flirting.

“I did  _ not _ . I don’t string anyone along, Felix! You break my heart sometimes. I’ve told you before, I’m totally in love with each and every girl I flirt with. It's real and sincere. Just... fleeting.”

It’s not the time for this. There are real problems outside, there are real dangers that Felix should be training to combat. He knows now to suspect Edelgard; that’s something more than he had, that’s something real and solid to investigate. He’s not going to risk his life without further evidence to go after her, no, and yet doing something should be priority. Training. Researching. Ugh, even speaking to the Adrestian students in private to learn what they know. These are things that matter right now. Not this. Not Sylvain’s disastrous love life.

In spite of himself a grin creeps its way onto Felix’s face. The world threatens to fall to chaos if his meager scraps of gathered info truly lead to something, but he’s here and he’s grinning and he’s suddenly very willing to prod Sylvain about his intimate relations.

“Uh-huh. And the men? And the others?”

“Better to keep the good times with guys as no strings attached. Everyone else… what, you mean Professor Byleth? Well-”

Felix gives him a look. Whether he’s picking up on the vibe of  _ you know they’re not the only one beyond gender, _ or that of  _ please don’t even joke about sleeping with our teacher, _ he seems to get it. Sylvain swallows and tries again with less humour.

“Love with a man for me is more trouble than it’s worth. And I’m already trouble enough to begin with. S’just not viable, you know?”

Oh, Felix knows.

He recalls Sylvain as a young boy taking cues from his father in his behaviour. If the heir of Gautier is to be a man, he must wield the family weapon and play the family part. Take a bride and let her have your child, and have her keep birthing your children until the time a new Crest-bearer is born. To take a groom doesn’t work outside of very specific circumstances. The rules that the Gautier lineage must abide by are absolute, and ranked high above the feelings of a lone branch on their Crest-tacular family tree.

And if one should, as Sylvain once was, be a man lacking the ability to take a wife and get her pregnant… well, that can be fixed. With blood, sweat, and tears. With invasive doctors and eccentric mages and embarrassing fertility tests. Sylvain had bitched and moaned for months on end while forced to sit out of training.  _ It hurts _ , and  _ I’m tired _ , and  _ I’m scared _ . Felix has been to battle countless times more than Sylvain, yet Sylvain carries scars much deeper and much more significant than his own.

It kind of terrifies him.

He tells himself that he holds no interest in changing his body because of such things. That parts don’t make the man (which is true), that Margrave Gautier is an irresponsible, uncaring bastard (which is also true), and that he’s got no time for such extreme surgeries and spells. Felix doesn’t want to change his body, because it’s the kind of man’s body he’s comfortable with. At the same time, Felix also feels a deep and shameful fear when he considers it. To be touched and cut up and looked upon by strangers. To have strangers know his body, and acknowledge it, and see it and touch it and reshape it with their untrustworthy hands -

He can’t imagine anything worse. So maybe Sylvain is a braver man than he.

Anyway.

“What, because your father won’t approve?” Both of them laugh.

“Something like that. You can basically hear it, right? ‘Sylvain, I spent so much money to build you up into something you’re not, all for you to throw away our legacy over some good dick? What a disgrace! I’d have been better off keeping you an ugly daughter! You’re almost as worthless as Miklan!’” His expression of mock-fury is surprisingly spot-on.

This time only Sylvain laughs, although his laughter peters out when he sees the way Felix looks at him.

“Eh, I shouldn’t complain. I know what you’re thinking. I should spend less time worrying about whose pants I’m approved to be in by dear old Dad, and more time getting battle-ready. And I mean you’re  _ right _ -”

“I didn’t say anything yet.” Felix wishes people wouldn’t assume they know his thoughts. “I do think you should disregard your father’s words here. I’ve seen you court men, and you’ve admitted to it too, brought them up not that long back. Why should his words stop you loving them as you do your ladies? Oh, but I’d prefer you stop asking me out to pick people up with you. Live your life, I just don’t want to be involved in… that. It’s not anything I enjoy.”

If he was in the mood to bully the big fool, Felix would go off on an Ingrid-esque tangent about Sylvain treating his partners with more respect. If he was feeling it then he’d encourage Sylvain to re-examine how he views women entirely. He approaches them far differently to how he approaches men. He doesn’t treat them right, and that line about falling in love with every last one he beds was an easily-spotted lie.

Except Felix doesn’t have the energy for that sort of lecturing right now. Does that make him a bad person? Probably.

“We should go train.”

So they do.

* * *

Monica, or Kronya, or whatever her name is, she’s found in the Sealed Forest. She dies there too. Not even at the hands of one of the lions! At those filthy, pale claws of Tomas. Or Solon. Felix really does wish these foes would pick one name and stick with it. Whatever. What matters is she’s dead.

The professor disappearing complicates things.

Or not. Ever the surpriser, they’re back within the hour. The students have all gathered to hide in the thick of the forest from Solon and discuss their next move, and then suddenly the sky above them is tearing open and Byleth reappears before their class, hair and eyes alight with a divine glow. They’re always so good at making things interesting. The battle resumes.

Later, Felix staggers out of the forest arm in arm with Annette and Ashe, following behind Dimitri, who in turn carries Byleth. He’s struggling to see from the blood in his eyes, struggling to walk with his smashed-up knee, and to top off the hell of a sight he is right now, he’s grinning and uncharacteristically boisterous at their victory. Weak and weary, the usually-spritely pair he’s supporting give some pathetic cheers as they break the forest boundary and begin the walk back to Garreg Mach proper.

Ashe’s face is mashed in to the point where he could be mistaken for Sylvain with the amount of blood staining his hair, and Annette’s been left holding her guts in by force of will alone after one particularly nasty swordstrike to the belly. Mercedes has at least patched them up enough to get them back to the monastery, so they’ll be fine. Felix thinks they’re well within their rights to celebrate their victory on the way back, even if his friends don’t agree. Maybe he hit his head a bit too hard. There is a lot of blood. Doesn’t matter, because his good mood and adrenaline carry him a decent portion of the way home.

There’s a fuss when they’re through the gates, and the Archbishop herself comes out to order Dimitri about on where to lay their poor professor down. Felix sees that the concern is with Byleth only, and so is quick to take on the task of getting himself and his friends to the infirmary. Manuela’s been picked off by Rhea to check on Byleth, and that leaves… Gilbert. Gilbert, who is not a healer, yet who is lurking around the infirmary anyway.

“Annette-!” gasps out the old man when Felix and Ashe lay her down. Felix has barely moved back from her when he finds he can’t support himself any longer, and so he ends up down right next to her. She laughs through clenched teeth and knocks Felix on the shoulder with her fist. He reaches across himself to pat her hand comfortingly. She’s got it worse right now.

“Not to worry, Gilbert, sir. Mercedes has gone off to get some of the other medical staff, and she patched us up pretty well out in the field!” Ashe is regaining some of his usual chipper demeanour. Though he does find that he has to sit himself down when he’s done speaking. Woozy from blood loss, Felix assumes.

“That may be the case, but this… I should go and find them, and make sure that we are treating this as a priority. Ashe, son, thank you for bringing these two young ladies in. I must ask that while you rest you continue to keep watch over them.”

Ah.

Ashe flails for how to respond, looking over to Felix with wide and panicked eyes only to be met by a stunned, stricken look. By the time he manages to blurt out “Felix isn’t-” Gilbert is already gone. Ashe whimpers.

“Felix, I am so sorry, I’m sure he didn’t mean to do that, I mean, not that that’s an excuse of course, he’s - I - uhh, oh no, oh dear…!”

“Ashe,” Felix starts. Ashe shuts up immediately. “Don’t worry about it, it’s not your fault.”

He still looks panicked, unconvinced that he didn’t somehow cause this. Ashe is such a kind person, Felix is sure that must make this situation all the more nightmarish for him. It’s worse for himself, yeah… but Felix is tough. Ashe is Ashe.

“My father’s an idiot.” croaks Annette helpfully.

“Her father’s an idiot.” repeats Felix.

No one needs to hear right now how much it hurts to be misgendered by someone who worked with his brother, and his father, and the relatives of everyone Felix has ever held dear. He'll keep that to himself. No need to concern them with it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix makes the same mistake twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more injuries this chapter! cw for busted ribs/wrecked lungs from unsafe binding (yes, Again) and head injuries. nothing that magic can't pull anyone back from, but it's uh, rough. also warning for usual Felix-style thoughts about Dimitri's outbursts in case that's a bother, and a fair few more angsty dysphoric thoughts. those are par for the course by now, aren't they.
> 
> there's a lot of relying on Manuela here! she's the real mvp even though she doesn't appear in person

Felix doesn’t think he’ll cope with another ‘mistake’ like that. Though his injuries from that day have long since healed, it still sticks in his mind, and he repeats it over and over to himself. It makes him angry. Incomparably furious. Gilbert of all people. Gustave, because he’s not fooling anyone. Gustave who was his father’s friend, his brother’s senior, his former friend’s tutor. Gustave who fled before Rodrigue started acknowledging Felix as Felix. Being sickened with the life of a knight, that’s something Felix can respect. He can’t believe he’d just - that he -

He’s fuming. Continues to fume, every time he passes Gilbert by in the halls. Every time he watches over the class. Or watches over Dimitri. It’s always Dimitri. It’s Dimitri with Rodrigue, and it’s Dimitri with Gilbert. He and Annette share knowing glances. While Annette doesn’t blame Dimitri the way Felix can’t quite help but to, she’s still unhappy. They can seethe together, silently, over their fathers. Over her father. Over Gilbert, who has yet to apologise for his mistake.

It’s not like Felix can bring it up. Weeks have gone by now; it’s too late to mention. He’ll have to grin (or scowl) and bear it until it happens again. If it does. Gilbert hasn’t addressed Felix once in recent times. Felix won’t do it first for the simple fact that he doesn’t want to speak to him, so that leaves them at an impasse that one party doesn’t even know exists.

Felix glares at himself in the mirror he so often avoids, the morning that the class are set to witness their professor’s ‘divine revelation.’ It feels like a load of nothing.

If there is a goddess out there, if she’s real and truly exists or existed or whatever, why would the world function as it does? It’s foolish. 

If there’s a goddess, why would Glenn have died a brutal and meaningless death? Why would his former best friend have been reduced to something feral and broken? Why would Ingrid bear the fate of her family on her back? Why would Sylvain have to live through the things Miklan did to him? Why would Ashe have to kill his own father? Why would Dedue have lost his home, his family, his people? Why would Annette have to have lost her father to his own shame and cowardice? Why would Mercedes have been torn from her brother? Why would Felix…

Why?

Another question. Why would any sort of benevolent goddess would put him in this position? He stares at himself. Just over a week ago was Felix’s eighteenth birthday. His face is far too similar to Glenn’s, and his body is far too different. It’s a body that Felix himself is fine with, and no one else is. Where’s the fairness in that? It’s everyone else that has the problem, not him. He’s been through this to himself more times than can possibly be counted. Felix isn’t the one with the problem.

That won’t cut it anymore.

Those methods suggested by that book? He’s tried them. ‘Safer’ ways for him. They don’t work at all. Not like he needs them to. They might suit Caspar fine, and that’s great… the thing is, Felix isn’t Caspar. He needs to get back to how he used to do this. Today seems like a good day for it. Dull as it is that there’ll be no chance to fight on today’s mission, it feels like the right time to do this. If there’s a goddess and she’s listening to the kids, she’ll be listening today more than any other. If Felix presents himself in the Holy Tomb as the man he should be, the man he’d be expected to be by everyone around him to be taken seriously, maybe then Sothis will respect his dedication or something. Maybe she’ll rewrite things so that Felix is respected.

Wouldn’t that be lovely.

It won’t happen and he knows it, and still the slim bit of hope it gives him is enough to make him try. He wraps his chest good and tight. It hurts as usual when he does it like this, but his chest looks so damn flat when he’s dressed that it’s a sacrifice he’s perfectly willing to make. No one will look at his body and think ‘woman’ in the tomb. No one will make that mistake. Byleth will do whatever Rhea wants them to, and then he’ll come back to his room, change into training gear, and make up for the wasted time in the training grounds. It’s a perfect plan.

Confident in his choices for the day, Felix heads out to class. Linhardt of all people is joining them today. Invited along by the professor themselves, and uncharacteristically eager. Ah, of course, the Holy Tomb. He had mentioned once before that he’d wanted to study the interior only to be turned away by Flayn and Alois. He has to be excited for this, figures.

He does eye Felix in a way that very unsubtly lets him know that he can  _ tell _ , and that he thinks Felix is an idiot. He can mind his own damn business. Felix has half a mind to get up and skip class for the morning if he’s going to be here, except -

“Happy late birthday, Felix!” The girls and Ashe chorus, all grinning at him and holding up a variety of… objects. Gifts. Gifts? For him? What?

“Um-”

“Okay, I know we’re pretty late, and I’m so so so so sorry about that! We honestly didn’t know until His Highness let it slip yesterday! You should’ve said something, you dummy!”

Annette goes from celebration to scolding in the record time of two seconds. Felix is impressed.

“There wasn’t much reason to bring it up…” He rubs at the back of his neck, trying to ignore the pang of discomfort that moving his arm like that sends coursing through his chest and down his spine. “We’ve had bigger things to worry about.”

“That is no reason to ignore personal celebrations,” Ingrid retorts.

For once her expression is warm, and it’s a nice change to not be getting a telling off from her. She opens her arms to him for the first time in recent memory, and Felix  <strike> happily </strike> begrudgingly accepts her hug.

“I am so sorry for forgetting.” she says, and Felix does his best try at a reassuring smile. It’s not his style, so he’s sure it comes out looking awkward.

“It’s fine. You’re not going to let something like forgetting a birth date eat you up, right? That would be pretty stupid.”

Ingrid gives him one last squeeze before backing off, and Felix shudders at the jolt of pain. Oof, he’ll be sore later today. He thinks he hides it well enough, since no one’s looking concerned as they all begin shoving gifts in his direction. Mercedes and Dedue disappear away together for a while, returning with a cake that they assure is ‘not too sweet,’ and a plate of tiny meat sandwiches should the cake still not be to his taste.

It’s more thoughtful than Felix probably deserves.

Sylvain shows up late to class and, as usual, seems to have no idea what’s going on until the other students tell him in their variety of unimpressed and disappointed ways. Felix opens the embarrassingly thoughtful gifts from his classmates and comes away with three whetstones, two sets of fine bowstrings, a couple of very vicious-looking gauntlets, and a pair of shoes suitable for both battle and dance (thanks, Flayn).

It’s a good haul, and Felix is eager to try out the gauntlets especially. There’s no need for them today and he knows it. That doesn’t stop him. He still brings them when afternoon rolls around and Lady Rhea finally summons the professor. Who knows, maybe they’ll help the goddess realise what she should already know about Felix.

“How boring.” he says to the notion of a peaceful event. Sylvain nudges him and jokes that if he’s like this something is bound to go wrong. They’re all in high spirits, bar Dimitri and Flayn. It should be fine.

* * *

It’s very not fine.

The Flame Emperor. Whoever they really are behind that stupid mask, they’ve sprung this attack on the lions. The Archbishop is raging and Dimitri is slaughtering with a blank face and the rest of the students are left desperately trying to protect the Crest Stones. Linhardt sticks close to Felix because he  _ knows _ and he’s prepared should something go wrong, and that’s the most annoying thing about this whole battle.

Felix is stubborn. Felix is also graceful. He leaps off of one of the graves and lands a kick to his target, then tears into them with those new gauntlets. His body aches with every swing of his arms. He’s so alive in a fight, though! The pain in his chest can be put aside while he partakes in this refreshingly tough combat. The closer to the Emperor themselves that he moves, the more worthy these foes become. 

Lady Rhea may consider them heretics in her holy sanctuary or servants to a false prophet or whatever her excuse for church-sanctioned slaughter is this week, but each foe that meets his fists or his blade registers to Felix as nothing beyond an opponent. Someone to fight, to get him growing stronger. For that he appreciates them and their efforts to slay him.

Linhardt gags once or twice at the state of the bodies Felix leaves in his wake.

“Felix, do slow down!” Linhardt’s got his collar pulled up over his nose, stepping carefully around the fallen foes. “I would highly recommend a switch to magical attacks should you have the capability, with the way you are carrying yourself-!”

He tumbles when a not-quite-dead person grips his ankle. A few fearful shots of Wind get them off of him and he scrambles backwards, pressed up to one of the graves before he can even begin to think of standing back up.

Felix is fascinated by Linhardt in a few ways. The fact that he’d asked Mercedes to draw his blood for research, yet in battle he’s the most squeamish person on the field. How did such a soft heart manage to deal with his research supplies of blood without fainting? Is there something different about blood in a vial, compared to blood splattered across the ground from a wound? It’s so strange.

“Save the worry for yourself, Linhardt. I’m perfectly fine.”

Not true, there’s a particular nerve that’s twinging with every move of his left arm and getting worse each swing he takes. It’s nothing to stop Felix, too small to properly bother him, something he’s noticing and nothing else. There’s that nerve, and there’s a part on his left side, and there’s the point of his spine that sits right between his shoulders. It’s not worth fretting over.

“You say that now - eugh!” Linhardt shudders as a woman falls dead from the platform above, two arrows stuck in her skull. Ashe is getting to be a great shot. “You should not be pushing your limits right now, especially not in a situation such as this. That is not heroism, that is idiocy.”

Felix is prepared to bite back at that. Even coming close to calling him an idiot is unacceptable. The chance doesn’t come, however; rather than his own shouts, Felix hears laughter from behind him, leading to words spoken in a tone that chills his blood. The sounds of bones crunching and weapons clanging follow. It’s exactly as he fears. Felix turns slowly and wills it to be an apparition or a hallucination or something that means he doesn’t have to face this frightful reality once again. 

Felix is never that lucky.

All the lions rush to Dimitri’s side and none of them know what to do when they get there. They’re at least smart enough to tell that, together or not, they don’t stand a chance against him when he’s like this. Felix knows that too. No group of children, no individual child especially, can halt this monster’s rampage.

Nonetheless he moves, proving himself the fool he’d always liked to believe he wasn’t. His strength is nothing next to that of this wild animal, and still he grabs the lance and tries to yank it from the boar prince’s hands. It won’t stop him, and stands merely a sliver of a chance at reducing the bloodshed. It’s a mistake. A rash decision.

Dimitri growls and, with hardly a hint of effort, slams the butt of the lance into Felix’s chest. Felix hears - no, Felix  _ feels _ things inside of him buckle and break at the impact. He keeps his grip anyway. He can’t let there be a repeat of what he saw. He can’t let this beast show itself to his friends as it did to him. Felix already failed to keep the awful thing in check in Remire Village. They’ve seen a glimpse of it already, so he can’t fail again here.

_ It’s my duty _ , as Glenn might have said. That thought sounds so goddamn noble, he can’t help but laugh aloud through the ripping pain. To his classmates, he must look as unhinged as their house leader.

Dedue joins him, although he takes Dimitri by the shoulder. Byleth too, they go for his arm.

All three of them are nothing to his brute strength. It can’t be more than a few seconds until Dimitri grows tired of their interference.

“Get out of my way,” is grumbled in a voice that Felix no longer recognises. There’s hot breath huffed against his cheek as Dimitri twists, yanking himself out of Byleth’s grip and forcing Dedue to step away for the sake of avoiding the business end of the lance. Felix, slowed by his new injuries, is shoved off before he can move himself. He staggers back while fighting to suck in a proper lungful of air, and then his feet aren’t on the ground anymore.

Freefall lasts barely half a second before his head is splitting against the marble floor and his friends are crying out. The concern isn't for him anymore when the sounds of tearing flesh and the screams of dying men flood the upper chamber again.

Dimitri raves and roars above him. Rhea shouts some nonsense about heresy. Sylvain and Annette and Flayn all look down at him, horror-stricken.

Forgoing the steps, Mercedes gets Dedue to lower her down to the ground floor of the tomb again as quick as he can. She’s still not the first to reach Felix.

Linhardt is with him quicker and there’s something in his hand. Scissors, he realises, when Linhardt has slipped a hand beneath Felix’s shirt and cut loose the bindings.

He really was expecting this, huh.

“I told you, didn’t I? Now look what’s happened.”

Felix expects to be able to breathe easier without the bindings. What he finds instead is pain more intense that shoots through him and lights up every nerve in his spine, which in turn only makes the dull throb of his split skull turn to fiery agony. He screams, he knows he screams, yet worryingly all he hears is a soft whimper and a disgusting gurgle.

“Professor!” Calls out… someone. Annette? He can’t tell. “Felix is hurt real bad!”

How presumptuous! He’ll be fine; he has to wait for the pain to ease, that’s all! He’ll be back on his feet within the hour.

Or maybe not?

It’s getting harder to see. And hear. And like, breathe.

“Manuela. Ingrid, go get her.”

Frantic hooves against stone. Turns out that it’s good that she brought Kyphon with her. Most people would never think it proper for a horse to witness a divine revelation. Ingrid isn’t most people. She’ll have Manuela back here faster than anyone else.

Felix’s pride is keeping quiet all of a sudden, he finds. This is one situation where there’s no other options for him and he’ll take the help without a fight, because he’s not stupid. His broken body won’t get him to the infirmary.

Linhardt above him is pointedly avoiding looking at his face, and the warm, wet feeling on the back of Felix’s neck clues him in as to why. He’s really gone and screwed up this time. The whole back of his head has to be split wide open, doesn’t it? It sure feels like it.

Even so, this isn’t where he’ll die. Like last time, he knows he can be fixed right back up. Felix won’t die. He won’t!

Mercedes joins Linhardt in healing. She’s got Felix’s head gently clasped between her soft hands. Linhardt has, humiliatingly, still got a hand beneath his shirt for the sake of keeping him (sort of) breathing. The class must think him pathetic now.

_ Look at the poor fool, bloodied and beaten for trying to face off against a man more beast than human. He’s talked so long about Dimitri being a boar, but he failed to heed his own warnings. He brought this on himself. _

Felix doesn’t stay conscious long enough to see Manuela’s arrival.

* * *

The number of infirmary visits he’s had to make recently is way too high. These injuries are worse than previous ones. The recovery this time is slower, far more painful, and the worst of it is that Manuela predicts his recovery will take longer than they have before Edelgard’s army arrives. He’ll have to flee rather than fight unless he can find some way to fix himself up.

It’s safe to say that Felix is pretty damn pissed about that.

His foul mood isn’t helped by Dimitri finally taking a proper plunge off the deep end and spending his days muttering about tearing Edelgard’s head from her shoulders. The sight of him pacing, growling at all who get too near for his liking is many things. Infuriating. Revolting. What annoys Felix most, however, is that the core thing he knows himself to feel when he looks at what Dimitri has been reduced to is  _ sad _ . His heart aches when he looks upon the beast, because he couldn’t do anything to stop it taking Dimitri again. He tried to tell people, didn’t he? Felix thinks he’s been pretty clear about that. No one helped in spite of his warnings, and he wasn’t strong enough to help Dimitri alone.

Maybe because being around him makes the hairs on the back of Felix’s neck stand on end. He perceives Dimitri’s presence as a threat. If he hadn’t done that, maybe he’d have been more helpful.

Whatever.

There’s no time for what-ifs. He doesn’t want to keep thinking about the boar prince.

If he can’t train himself, he’ll have to step up and… ugh, help his fellow students learn. The professor is more than welcoming of the help, and Felix finds he has a surprising knack for delivering constructive criticism. 

Stranger still, is he finds it somewhat  _ enjoyable _ . It’s nowhere near as much of a bother as he’d expected. He still doesn’t like being around this many people for this long, but the idea that his words might stick in their heads and keep them alive on the battlefield is comforting. 

He won’t be letting his friends know that, of course.

On the third week of the month, Manuela checks him out and tells him there’s a slim chance that, if he rests himself properly this week and has a good amount of luck on his side, he’ll be fighting fit before Edelgard’s assault. It ends up more frustrating a thought than comforting. The rib brace itches and he has to keep a classmate around to remind him to stop when he goes to lift a blade or a box or - anything heavier than a spoon, really. Sylvain’s happy to slack off for the sake of keeping him company, and that’s even more frustrating. If he doesn’t train he’ll be sloppy, and if he’s sloppy he’ll die, and, while he won’t say it to his face,  _ Felix doesn’t want him to die _ .

Sylvain sits sprawled out on Felix’s bed, not caring about how impolite it is. Felix doesn’t care either since it’s him, and he’s just like this. It’s not stopping him from going about his routine. What  _ is _ stopping him…

“Sylvain. You wouldn’t happen to have any  _ potions _ laying spare, would you?”

He’d known he was getting low on them. A supply he’s been taking since he was 13 isn’t going to carry him into adulthood - the fact it’s lasted him this long is a miracle as is. Felix has been intending to look into a new supply for a few months, since he started on his last vial. It hasn’t been a priority, that’s the thing. Now that’s gone and caught up with him. In his supply cupboard that final vial sits, and there’s maybe three drops left in it. Not good.

“No? I thought I told you that-”

“That you don’t need to be taking them anymore, I know. I also know you’re an unorganised disaster of a man, and even if you don’t need to take them anymore, you probably haven’t thrown any leftovers you have away.”

“Ouch. No faith in me, huh? Well you’re outta luck, man. ‘Cause I cleaned up for once!”

Sylvain waits, leaving a pause like he expects praise for the grueling task of cleaning up his dorm for once in his life. Felix stares him down, unimpressed.

“...Nothing. Really? Not even a teeny bit proud of me? Okay, okay. I’m serious though, Felix, I have nothing that’ll help you.”

Useless as ever.

“I suppose I’ll have to pester Manuela again then, see if she’s got anything similar for me.”

Felix sighs and slams the cupboard shut. It would be nice if something could start going right for him soon; the injuries, the embarrassment, the numerous failings, and now this. Because of course, why wouldn’t the school year end on the brink of war? Why wouldn’t now be the time he finally runs out of his damned testosterone potions? Why not now? It might as well happen.

“Is now the time to be worrying about that, anyhow?” Sylvain pipes back up. “I mean, in a few days the imperial army will be here, so getting as much rest as you can before then’s gotta be the priority, right? This doesn’t matter a whole bunch in the grand scheme of things…”

Sylvain, who should understand, does not. Sylvain who, while never questioning it, has also never understood Felix’s approach to his own manhood, doesn’t understand this. Cool! Cool cool cool. He’s fine to be doubted if he doesn’t care about certain features of his body, and the parts he does care about? Those are fine to be dismissed as unimportant. It’s worse too, that he knows in the face of impending war his personal needs aren’t important. He knows that. Felix  _ knows _ . And still -

“Didn’t you tell me you’ve got a girl waiting on you this afternoon? Who are you to speak of priorities?”

The silence speaks for itself. Sylvain losing the fight to keep a grin off his face definitely doesn’t do anything to argue against the accusation, either. Insatiable bastard.

“Right, right. Do what you gotta. Just don’t have a meltdown if you can’t get ahold of any, alright? You’ll survive.”

Should he be saying thanks to that? Telling Sylvain to shut up? He can’t decide. Instead, he leaves without a word.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix goes to Mercedes for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for really, really, really ridiculous mention of genitals. like, the warning's here if you don't want to see them say these things but it's. ridiculous. also cw for war and battle - it's the battle of garreg mach and things get violent. yes both of these things are happening in this chapter

“Mercedes. May I…?” Oof, here we go. Asking for help is not Felix’s strong suit on the best of days, so with something like this? He’d take another busted rib over doing this again. Unfortunately, there’s no avoiding that this needs to happen, so he’ll just have to push on through and get it done. “May I steal you away for a few minutes?”

Annette waggles her eyebrows in a way Felix didn’t realise was possible and coos annoyingly in his direction. At first, he considers reminding her that he has no interest in… women? Anyone? He’ll figure out the specifics later. It’s no interest and he’s fine to leave it at that for now. Then he realises that Annette is probably doing this _ because _ she’s aware of that, since she does so love getting a reaction out of him. Must be revenge for him apparently embarrassing her every time he hears her pretty singing. All the same, Felix doesn’t understand what he did wrong in those situations. Regardless, he feels the creep of heat up his neck and across his face, and Annette beams with pride. 

Much less inclined to be a brat than Annie, Mercie smiles and steps out with Felix. “What do you need? Is everything alright? Your chest isn’t bothering you again, is it? If you’re having trouble breathing, you need to go to the infirmary, mister.”

She treats him like a child, and it’s growing to be more endearing than irritating, as much as he may hope to hide that fact. The longer it goes on, the less he can convincingly disguise his feelings. No one else has caught him on it, thankfully, but sometimes it feels like Mercedes _ knows _ he doesn’t mind her.

“My chest is fine. This is more about…”

Felix chews on his lip, uncertain of the best way to approach this. It’s not that Mercedes herself has what he needs or anything. She’s more likely to have what he _ doesn’t _ need. No, the problem is that Manuela had told him she’s got nothing to help, and that his best shot at finding something is going to come from… Claude.

Claude, who Felix is on extremely not-good terms with. He doesn’t doubt that Claude will help him out, though; no, what he expects is much worse. A smug look of satisfaction as Felix is forced to come crawling back, apologising for his transgressions and begging for Claude to help him once more. He can’t be blamed for not wanting to go through that alone, can he?

“I need to ask a favour of Claude von Riegan. Claude von Riegan does not like me very much at the moment. And as clingy and cloyingly sweet as you can be, Mercedes, you’re also the least-likely person in the school to have made an enemy. Ever. So, uh…”

“You would like me to help you talk to Claude, because you’re more comfortable asking something of me than apologising to talk to him. Did I get it right?”

She did. Even so, she didn’t need to phrase it like that.

“Don’t you worry, Felix! Leave it to me, and we’ll get things sorted out in no time at all.”

Without asking, Mercie takes his arm in hers and begins marching proudly toward the Golden Deer classroom. Felix is embarrassed to say the least, but refusing her now is pointless. This is how it has to go.

They hear the shouting from inside before they’ve even turned the corner to reach the classrooms. Claude and Lorenz, if Felix had to guess. He gets a small nip of satisfaction when they get closer and he’s confirmed right. 

Claude’s curls are bound up in a bandana, messier than normal today. Where they’re usually slicked back with whatever the hell sort of oil or gel he likes, that seems to have been forgone entirely. Calling him stressed here would be an understatement, as Felix and Mercie happen to walk in right in the middle of he and that pompous, purple poor man’s Sylvain tearing into one another. Lorenz looks the same as ever; fancy and fragile and unsuited to the brutality war entails.

“You wish to keep me from defending Garreg Mach on the front lines with you! That must be it, yes? You believe that honour and social standing are the priority here! You’ll keep me away, and go glory-grabbing for yourself! We are at _ war, _ Claude, it is not the time to be acting on such petty notions!”

“You’re accusing _ me _ of caring about social standing over strategy? You think this is a ploy, that it?” Lorenz folds his arms, and Claude stares on in disbelief. “Lorenz, that is truly rich coming from _ you _ of all people. I’m proposing this because it’s safer for you! If you stay out of the thick of things and man a fire orb with Lysithea, you’ll be able to clear a path for our cavalry _ and _ defend them from the rear. It makes sense!”

“You do not want me up there with you. You, an archer, are going to run out there and play hero? You’ll be slaughtered! We can’t let that happen!”

Ever the theatrical soul, Lorenz slams his hands down on the desk he’s stood by. M...Mary? Mari? The blue-haired girl with sad eyes flinches, leading Hilda to wrap an arm around her and glare until Lorenz moves off and finds a different place to be a drama queen.

“I’ve trained with a sword for a reason. I can handle myself.” Claude’s lost some of the fight in his voice. He sounds both exhausted and exasperated, understandably, and Felix has to wonder how long they’ve been on this topic. “I want you to stay back so that you’re _ safe _ while continuing to play to your strengths as a fighter, can you get that through your skull? Hilda, Raph, Iggy, Leonie and I can lead off, Ignatz can flank Raphael and I’ll flank Hilda while Leonie joins Sylvain, Ferdinand, and Ingrid, and you’ll be up by Lady Rhea, defending her and keeping us in the know about enemy movements. What about this is the problem, Lorenz? What is so impossible for you to get?”

“What is ‘impossible’ for me is the fact that I have seen you play the swordsman, and you drastically overstate your skill in the area! Should your quiver run empty, or Hilda be put out of commission, then-”

“Can both of you stop this already?!” Lysithea pipes up, gesturing at the men with the ladyfinger she’s been nervously nibbling on this whole time. “Lorenz, Claude’s plan makes tactical sense for the most part. Claude, Lorenz’s concerns about your swordsmanship are valid. If we send you up and - goddess forbid - something happens to Hilda that forces her to retreat, what then? We should get someone else on foot with you. someone like…”

She taps the sweet to her chin as she thinks. Felix can see her swinging her legs childishly beneath the desk. “Maybe we should come back later.” Mercedes whispers his way. He shakes his head. Felix wants to hear this strategy.

Felix does not want to catch Lysithea’s eye and have her turn his way. 

Felix _ really _ does not want Lysithea to end her sentence with “Like Felix here, if he’s back to fighting fit.”

Shit.

“Oh, we have guests.” Claude sinks down onto his desk. His face betrays nothing. That facade doesn’t change that Felix can feel the irritation he radiates. Or… thinks he feels. “Lions. How can we help you on this fine, brink-of-war morning?”

“Hello, Claude!” Mercedes smiles her sweet smile, taking initiative and striding over to him. Felix follows awkwardly, and the eyes of every deer on him make his skin crawl. This was a mistake. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, I can see you’re in the middle of some important warspeak here. We can come back later, if that’s preferable? I just had one little favour that I needed to ask you.”

Even the infamously-distrustful Riegan heir appears to let his defences drop for Mercie. Something about her presence is so calming, disarming, no one can help but melt under her doe-eyed stare. “Now’s fine,” Claude concedes, shifting on his ‘seat.’ “Everybody take five. We’ll get back to work on this after a break, so go get a snack or… something.”

No one leaves the classroom. Lysithea pulls a paper bag from her satchel, and the rest of the deer flock to her as she hands out tiny, daintily-iced cookies to them all. In spite of that heated argument, they all seem close as can be. Lorenz is even the one to deliver Claude’s cookie, and Felix isn’t dense enough to miss the lingering touch of hands. Or Claude’s smirk. Or Lorenz’s blush, that the rest of the class proceed to hoot and holler about once he heads back to them.

So that’s how it is? Interesting.

“Oh, thank you, Claude! We really do appreciate it. Right, Felix?”  
She’s doing this to him on purpose. That feels unfair.

“Um… yes, quite. Thanks, Riegan.”

“...Well. What’d you need? Last minute brushing up on your archery skills? Can’t blame you from wanting to learn from the best, buuut I’m not sure it’s the best of times to be putting a new skill to the test. Unless you’re a quick learner, that is, and even then...”

“We’re not here for archery lessons, though that’s very kind of you! Actually, um…” Considerate of Felix’s privacy, she leans in and whispers her request. Claude makes this _ face _ when he understands, and Felix doesn’t like it. He’ll have to live with not liking it. Mercie pulls back from him, her classic smile still gracing her face. “So you wouldn’t happen to have any spare, would you?”

Felix expects Claude to take the opportunity he has right here to humiliate him. Loudly announce why he’s here, play up how he begs and grovels, and make it unavoidable that everyone hears. Instead, Claude winks and heads for the door. “Follow me. Golden Deer, I’ll be back! Behave yourselves.”

They won’t.

Claude leads them to his dorm room, and Felix marvels at his setup when he pulls it from beneath his bed. A tiny crate filled to the brim with an alchemist’s wet dream. That’s not the right box, even, as Claude disappears further under his bed and pulls out a box of pale purple potions.

“Here it is. Man juice. Boy moisture. Dick-growin’ goop, if you’ll forgive my crudeness.”

Mercedes giggles. Felix contorts his face in a way he hopes gets across the disgust, disdain, displeasure that Claude’s increasingly-terrible names bring him. Claude seems to be satisfied with that. “Don’t call it that.”

Showing his irritation turns out to be a mistake.

“Masc-mix, clit-stretcher, voice gravel, guy gel, dude fluid, dick draught, boy brew, top juice. We’ve got plenty to choose from, Mr. Fraldarius.”

“I’m going to punch you.” He says. He won’t, of course. The aches in his body persist, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize his chances of full recovery before it’s time to to fend off the empire. Claude flinches back as he stands for safety. Good, he knows to take Felix seriously. That’s what he likes.

“...Penis poultice!” Mercedes adds. She looks so proud of herself for it, too. Felix kind of wishes that the last fight killed him.

“Aaaanyway, for the dose you want about 4 drops a day, and to rub it on your shoulders or your upper arms or somewhere else around that area. I can tell what you’re thinking and no, it will _ not _ work better if you put it on your junk. Trust me, don’t do that. It’s bad. B - A - D bad.”

“...I’ll take your word for it.” Gross. “So you don’t ingest it? That’s new.”

“If you want to you can. We haven’t seen what happens if you do that yet.”

No thank you, Felix would rather not be playing the guinea pig with Claude’s potions. He’s heard about the penchant for poisons and he’s not about to willingly walk into a situation like that.

Claude’s smile looks sincere enough as he hands over five of his potions, assuring that this should keep him well-stocked for a good while. That’s good. Felix mutters some thanks and, without lingering longer than necessary, speedwalks his way right out of the room. He doesn’t want to be sucked into a conversation about their last encounter today. Especially not with Mercedes around. 

Speaking of Mercedes, she jogs to keep up with him and follows him to his own dorm. Sylvain has gone and cleared off by now, thankfully. While he puts the potions away, she’s polite enough to wait outside. Felix appreciates that. He doesn’t want anyone in his room bar himself and, occasionally, Sylvain. That, too, is only when he’s in the mood for friendly company, which isn’t often.

“All ready?” She’s merciful enough not to go grabbing his arm right away this time, rather opting to offer him her hand. It wouldn’t be right to refuse, of course, so he takes it in his own and gets a contented noise from her in return. “Good, good. So. Are you up to apologising to Claude for whatever you did, now that he’s helped you out? Or is that still too much?”

“You needn’t talk to me like I’m a child, Mercedes. I’m not your brother, and I’m not a baby.” There’s none of his Felix-y bite to the words. They’re a reminder and nothing else. He has no reason to be outright rude to her today (not that he ever truly does); she’s been nothing but helpful and accommodating. Felix is a jerk, he’s not heartless. Not yet. “...I’ve got no plans to talk about that with him yet.”

“Fair enough. You’ll resolve it eventually.”

She sounds more confident in that than Felix.

Their walk to class _ would _ be silent, if not for Mercie ‘helpfully’ coming up with more names for Felix’s potions every few minutes. He’s trying to tune them out, trust him, he’s trying. Something about her cheerfully chirping some ridiculous phrase in his ear now and then is difficult to ignore. She’s having fun, but it’s entirely at the cost of Felix’s sanity.

  


* * *

  


They’re at war before the week ends. Felix gets told to be honest about his condition… and the honest answer is that he feels up to the fight. Byleth is advised by Manuela not to let him in case he’s fibbing, in case there’s a chance things could be worse than he thinks. They insist that they trust him, and so he’s welcomed onto the battlefield alongside his friends. Bernadetta trembles beside him, and it’s by Claude’s suggestion that she stays close to their squad. Felix isn’t sure she’s the sort that they should be taking onto the front lines when there are ballistas available far from the point where armies meet. His hesitations don’t matter here, however - she agrees and follows close to him.

Hilda swings, Claude shoots.

Raphael strikes, Ignatz shoots.

Felix stabs, Bernadetta _ and _ Leonie shoot.

It’s working out quite well.

Then they reach their splitting point. It’s, unfortunately, marked by a demonic beast that’s settled itself atop one of the fortresses. Leonie’s horse rears back, and she darts away to join the cavalry as they ride up parallel. The beast tries to hit her and, foolishly, opens itself up to Felix. A good time to try out one of those spells he’s been learning.

Alright, Thunder. Felix concentrates. The energy in the air becomes the energy at his fingertips. All the nerves in his arm tense and ache. He raises his free hand and casts. Turns out, demonic beasts don’t like taking a Thunder to the face! Who could have guessed that one? Felix is decently satisfied with the damage he does.

Not so satisfied when the wretched thing turns its fury on him. He moves to defend, and notices a twinge in his ribs he hadn’t felt earlier. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.  
  
“Bernadetta, you need to-”

“Shall we dance?”

Claude has a hand on Felix’s shoulder all of a sudden, vaulting over him to land kneeling before the beast. The monster shrieks and screams before falling dead, and only now does Felix see the arrows lodged in its throat. He nods approvingly.

“Nice form.”

“Thanks, been workin’ on that one. Bernie, you good?” Claude stands, and Bernadetta whimpers. “....Gonna take that as a no. Well, this is only getting more dangerous from here. Maybe you should retreat. We won’t blame you.”

“I, um… well… oh, look out!”

Bernadetta is quick on the mark. An arrow is nocked and shot before either man has turned his head, and the soldier intending to bring his axe down on Claude’s neck yelps and falls. Hilda’s upon him within seconds, hacking him to bloody chunks in a rage then whining about the effort she’s put in.  
“Sorry, I… I didn’t want him to hurt you!”

Bernie doesn’t retreat.

The lot of them carry on cutting their path through the imperial forces. Raphael and Ignatz split off, joining an advancing Caspar to launch an assault on Hubert. The rest of them continue aiming for Edelgard herself. Except they’re beaten there when a streak of blue comes striking down from one of the nearby houses’ rooves. Dimitri, crouched low and animalistic, wields one of the scythes snatched away from the Death Knight in a prior encounter. He lunges at Edelgard, cutting her men down as he screams and curses incoherently. When they’re dealt with, he stops and speaks calmly. Edelgard even laughs.

Bernadetta trembles at Felix’s side as Claude makes the idiotic decision to advance. Hilda goes to follow, but is swept up in dealing with the reinforcements spilling through the gates. Felix leads Bernie off after her, trying to keep himself good and close to where the lords stand. He can’t ignore these soldiers, and he can’t ignore the three most important teenagers on the continent.

  


“Your Highnesses, we can settle this without blood! Lower your weapons, call off your soldiers, there must be a better way!”

Dimitri swings at Edelgard. Claude draws his sword and parries, putting himself between the two royals. A dangerous place for someone like him to be.

“Don’t do this, Dimitri, I know you’re not the violent type.”

Felix could laugh.

“Then you really don’t know me at all!” The boar screams out, and he takes another swing at Claude this time. Claude is quick on his feet to block a second time… yet he’s not quick enough to keep Edelgard from lifting her axe to him. 

Yeah, exactly as predicted.

Felix cuts in as she moves, making the dangerous play of putting his hand on Edelgard to cast. Another rush of electricity through his veins, and the new emperor spasms at his touch. She’s going to need a moment. Felix, however, is the fastest man on the field, and that lets him push through the backlash from his attack, grab Claude by the wrist, and tear him from the middle of the fight just as Edelgard is recovering.

“Uh, thanks. Guess that ‘talking it out’ won’t work this time around.”

“You don’t fucking say?”

“It was worth a shot! Besides, I had you at my back. I was safe.”

He says it with a wink. Felix notes that Claude seems oddly confident about that. Yeah, alright, Felix couldn’t stand by and watch the Alliance’s next leader be cut down... Be that as it may, it doesn’t change that counting on something like that is a reckless, terrible plan. “Hey, where’d Bernie go?”

Oh, he lost Bernadetta.

That’s not good.

A telltale scream, blood-curdling and fearful, sounds off somewhere in the chaos. That’s not good. It wasn’t practical for her to follow him through his Claude rescue, and Felix knows it. That doesn’t stop him thinking to himself that she could’ve at least met them on the other side. What a pain.

“Bernadetta, you fool!” Felix calls out as he dips back around Edelgard and Dimitri. It hits him halfway there that Claude can’t be trusted not to wade into that conflict again, forcing him to twist back to face him (ow) and shout back, “Stay there, don’t get yourself killed!”

Felix hopes he’ll listen. There’s not much he can do to keep track of him while Bernadetta needs him. He’ll get her out of whatever jam she’s in, get back to Claude, make sure they both stay alive. The boar prince at his back bellows some heinous thing at Edelgard.

Alright. Eyes are searching through the chaos, checking the faces of bloodied bodies on the ground. She’s none of them, okay! That’s good. Felix still needs to find her. She isn’t meant to be left alone in a fight like this. She’s reckless and foolish, she’ll be -

Spotted. She’s there, a ways away, surrounded on all sides by armoured foes. That’s not good.

“Watch out-!”

There’s a flash of light, and one of the armoured men falls. Bernie takes her chance and scurries away, and Felix stares at the body. A magic arrow has pierced the breastplate. Interesting. Her having a magic bow is news to Felix.

And now she’s back at his side.

“Fascinating technique.”

“Um… thanks, it’s not really a technique, y’know? Ol’ Bernie’s a skittish thing, I kinda… do what feels-”

The knights are approaching. A third cast of Thunder takes out two, at the price of that twinge getting worse. Felix clutches his ribs.

“Oh no, are you - Do we need to go? Ohh, Manuela said you were injured, I should’ve brought some vulnaries out with me! Stupid, Bernie, stupid!”

Bernadetta is beating herself up over something that couldn’t be further from being her fault. It’s pitiful to watch. What’s he supposed to say about this?

Nothing, it turns out. There’s nothing to say when Edelgard calls out to ‘give her uncle the order.’ The world turns to chaos, a goddamn dragon bursts forth into the sky. Professor Byleth calls for the warring students to protect those that flee, and in the chaos Edelgard slips away. Claude directs Dimitri to imperial soldiers to take out his fury on, keeping his rage from affecting the innocent. He’s a clever guy.

At some point they lose Byleth, and things go from bad to worse. No guidance means a group of students growing steadily out of control, panic bubbling to the surface as they’re overwhelmed by the enemy. Felix retreats when Sylvain rides by and roughly grabs him. Dimitri ‘retreats’ when his weapon breaks, and the combined strength of Dedue, Hilda, and Ingrid is needed to drag him from the battlefield.

  


* * *

  


The ride home to their respective territories is long and uncomfortably silent. Felix hates horseback riding; he’s never quite trusted the beasts, and that means he’s left sharing a steed with Sylvain. Were the backs of horses not the worst place for man to ever sit, he’d have dropped to sleep against his friend by now. Felix is exhausted, and Sylvain is big and warm.

...And Sylvain will also never know that he thinks that, because Felix would have to kill him if he knew.

The Fraldarius estate is as large, cold, and empty as ever. The maids welcome Felix with the announcement that his father has already left for Fhirdiad, in order to meet with Dimitri and the Grand Duke. Figures. Felix thanks them and stalks up to his bedroom. Untouched for a good year by now, Felix collapses onto his old bed and sighs.

Okay. Good points. He’s alive. Sylvain’s alive. Ingrid’s alive. Dedue’s alive. Ashe is alive. Annette’s alive. Mercie’s alive.

His friends from across the school are, as far as he’s aware, all alive.

Bad points. The boar has lost it once again. Those he knows from the Adrestian Empire are likely to either suffer under this new regimen for their defiance, if they survive at all, or end up an enemy of Felix’s one day. That twinge in his ribs is persisting.

Uncomfortable, Felix stands again and locks his door, then strips his shirt and undershirt away. Another look in the mirror. Fresh gashes and bruises litter his torso, yet he’s still alive. He still breathes.

Felix notes how he cuts a strikingly manly figure in the mirror, breasts and all. He’s a man built for the battlefield.

And so, alone in his bedroom, he vows quietly to himself that he’ll see the war through if he must. He’ll live. His friends will live, too. They won’t fall on his watch. Their lives won’t be thrown away over ideals. He’ll fight, and he’ll win, and he’ll be their shield. Not because it’s his duty, but because it’s the way for him to protect what he loves.

Glenn would be proud.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix is still soft on the inside.

> _ Duke Riegan, _
> 
> _ The senseless atrocity of war rarely gives us the time to reflect on ourselves, yet I continually find my thoughts drawn back to our encounters in more peaceful days. I write to you to say what I was too much of a stubborn, prideful fool to say in those times; that is, to apologise for my treatment of you after the assistance you gave me. _
> 
> _ You certainly know better than I how poorly I behaved in our schooldays. My reactions may have come from a place I found, and continue to find, justified, yet my callous words so lacking in empathy were unacceptable. They become more-so in hindsight, considering that, despite my uncouth behaviour, you continued to assist me in specific areas. _
> 
> _ As noble as it may be to write you solely with the intention of a long-overdue apology, you know me well enough to know that I am not that sort of man. I will be blunt; my father, Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius, has departed for Fhirdiad upon hearing the news of Prince Dimitri’s scheduled execution. By the time you hold this letter in your hands, the prince will either be dead or disgraced beyond measure. That is why I hope to establish a connection between our houses. _
> 
> _ I have heard _

Felix drops the quill, crumples the parchment, and tosses it to the floor. This is stupid. This is so stupid, and Claude won’t buy for a second that it’s honest. Felix isn’t even sure if it’s honest! Does he feel remorse for what he did? He doesn’t think that he was wrong to be upset. The problem arises with how he doesn’t think Claude was wrong, either. He was annoying, yes, which is the gravest of sins to Felix. Not wrong in intention.

Ugh.

He pulls another sheet of parchment from the stack, and begins penning a new letter. It takes another four hours to get something down he doesn’t feel to be a complete embarrassment to his name. It reveals far more weaknesses than he cares to on an average day, and he knows he’ll come to regret it as soon as the letter leaves his sight, but he deems it good enough for now.

A messenger is sent off to Riegan territory, and, as predicted, Felix regrets it the second their horse disappears down the road. Whatever! Whatever. Nothing he can do to change it now.

Claude had better respond. It’s going to be embarrassing if he doesn’t. Also, his messenger had better not die. It took Felix long enough as is to decide sending off one of their precious few remaining housestaff to play envoy for him worthy of the manpower sacrifice. He’d considered going himself for a bit. It hadn’t panned out, considering his dislike of horses. And his necessary duties to fulfil in Rodrigue’s absence. Oh, and the fact that the safest routes from Fraldarius to Riegan territory force either direct travel through war-torn lands, or journey by ship. Neither are the smartest of moves for him to personally make.

He’s alone with the housestaff for around two weeks, and it’s his father who returns home before his messenger. Figures. Long gone are the days when a young Felix would rush out to meet Rodrigue, gleeful and innocently naive to the horrors of the world. Now he heads out in the early morning frost, barely awake and still dressed in his nightwear, carrying himself as tall as he always does around his dad.

Bloodstains decorate Rodrigue’s armour. The tunic beneath, as well. There are wounds on his face, beginning to heal over. His eyes are hollow and empty. Felix understands right away.

“He was executed before I arrived. They refused me a viewing of the body.”

“...Father,” he starts, showing the old man more respect than he’ll have seen from Felix in almost six years. Wrath for king and country is the way of Faerghus, but Rodrigue loved Dimitri like one of his own. More than he ever loved Felix, arguably. Dimitri was his pride and joy after the tragedy. Rodrigue never truly saw that the sweet young prince had died alongside Glenn, and as much as that infuriates Felix, maybe now they’ll  _ finally _ , properly be able to grieve them both as they should’ve back then. “If-”

“Not. Now.”

Felix isn’t stupid, and takes a step back. Don’t think him cowardly; he’ll gladly put up a fight against his dad if he has to. Except an armoured, furious knight against his heavy-eyed, stricken son is about as distant as you can get from a fair matchup. He’s neither optimistic nor idiotic enough to think he stands a fraction of a chance should his father raise hand or blade to him.

Rodrigue, thankfully, makes an effort to bite back his hatred for his last of three sons.

“...Not now, Felix.”

That’s all he gets from him. Rodrigue marches past him, and the sounds of shattering ceramic and crashing furniture begin. A blind, unrestrained anger. The same he’d shown when Lambert and Glenn and numerous others fell. Felix wonders if he should feel the same about this.

Should he be angry? Consumed, foolishly, by his rage and lust for vengeance? He can only imagine the sorts of torturous ‘justice’ Rodrigue bestowed on the bastards who slew the boar. Should Felix join him in his anger? Turn it on any that he personally thinks deserving of it? Level Fhirdiad, or what remains of it after his father’s own fury struck those who betrayed the crown?

No, he’s not doing anything so vile and irrational. 

Felix is violent and bitter. A murderer like anyone else in war, anyone else bred for the blade. Nevertheless, he holds to his principles. He fights, and he grows stronger. It’s natural. He grows stronger, and he protects what he holds dear. That’s just as natural. To cut down a strong opponent means to grow strong, and to grow strong means to be able to defend one’s precious kin and cabal from those who are stronger still. Fight, and win, and be the strongest. Let no one be so reckless as to throw their life away for another. Keep those who need protection safe and strong and alive.

...Felix has already failed on that front.

What is the feeling that sits heavy in his chest, anyway? Dimitri perished long before the miserable head was lopped from his body. Felix mourned his friend years ago. To accept that what remained of Dimitri is gone now, too, is difficult. His mind struggles to make sense of it. The spirit died while the body kept walking, and that brought him more anger than comfort. He shouldn’t mourn a walking corpse.

His eyes sting.

How stupid.

* * *

Rodrigue is gone again, as he always seems to be nowadays. Out breaking up some strife on the edge of their territory, or travelling to assist in defending the border of Gautier, or something else of the sort. Three years of occupation in the ~Faerghus Dukedom~ has the Empire getting more and more bold in their attacks.

That’s why, when there’s a frantic knocking at the manor door in the middle of the night, Felix goes for his sword and armour right away. He expects that it’s news of his father, or that the imperial army is marching on their dwelling, or something else that’s going to require a fight. He feels a bit silly when the doormaid informs him that his visitor is… Ingrid.

Right. He hands off his sword, and half-escapes his armour on the walk down to the parlour. Ingrid is indeed there, hair chopped short and scruffy, and red swelling around her eyes. The poor thing isn’t even armoured! Her shirt and pants are both stained with grass and mud, telltale signs of a few falls on the way over. Ingrid rarely ever falls from her steed.

“You’re filthy.”

“I - I apologise, I had intended to arrive during the day, I… must have misjudged the distance, how foolish of me-”

“Come on.”

There’s no formality. He grabs Ingrid by her shaking hand and pulls her toward the stairs. She doesn’t resist, or make the slightest attempt to scold him. Whatever’s the matter, it has to be bad.

“Has there been an attack? Invasion? Should I prepare to send aid to Galatea territory?”

“No! Er, nothing so serious. I…”

“If you’re about to say something along the lines of ‘can I not drop in to see an old friend?’, I’m not buying it, so don’t bother.” Felix eyes her. Ingrid sniffles. This is worryingly unlike her not to start at him for that.

Felix rarely drops his walls, much preferring to butt heads with those he considers dear to him, but this is no time for a round of slinging insults and criticising ideals. “...Ing, what happened?”

She looks taken aback, and understandably so - Felix hasn’t been one for pet names since they were  _ very _ young. Although he knows that, the way she gawks makes him uncomfortable. It’s not that big a deal. Excuse him for trying to be nice.

A few seconds tick by, during which the shock drips steadily off of Ingrid’s face and she goes all solemn again. Nevermind; Felix prefers her gaping at him.

“It’s… it’s silly, really, I’m a disgrace for allowing myself to be so emotional about it. All this is rather unbefitting of a noblewoman, isn’t it?”

Felix wants her to get on with it. There’s no way to say that without snapping at her to hurry up, however, and so he holds his tongue and continues to stare.

“...Anyway. Father had, um, another suitor come by the house. It’s so ridiculous to flee, isn’t it? I…”

“Did he hurt you?” is Felix’s first interruption. He doubts it - prays to the goddess and whoever else is out there that if he tried anything Ingrid put him in his place - yet still he has to ask. Ingrid’s brow furrows and her lip quivers. Felix hates that he can’t decipher what that means. “We can get you a doctor. We can have him hanged, drawn, and quartered. I’ll personally ram a blade right up his-”

“No need, he didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t hurt me.” she finally breathes, head bowed. Felix sighs in his relief. “He… oh, it sounds so inoffensive, you’re going to think I’m fussing over nothing. He kept touching my hair, telling me how lovely it is, what a beautiful bride I’d make for him… and I hated it. I wasn’t thinking when I excused myself. I went right upstairs and chopped it all off with my dagger. He wasn’t too pleased. Gave up right then and there, packed up and left. Father wasn’t happy, either.”

“And so you fled?”

He doesn’t intend for it to sound as accusatory as it comes out.

“I know, I know. It’s selfish. Childish. Unbecoming for a lady of my status. I simply need a few days, I think? There have been more of them lately. The suitors. They’re getting more and more bold with how they treat me, and are easily tempted into showing their true colours. I can’t help but push them until they snap, and either leave, or are thrown out. I shouldn’t be like this, should I? I should grin and bear it for the family, then...”

She wells up with tears again. Cold and callous Felix doesn’t hesitate to open his arms to her, and she sobs into his shoulder as he pats her back. Poor, poor Ingrid. Chivalry nonsense aside, she doesn’t deserve this. How cruel, how selfish for her father to put this on her while war waits on the doorstep.

“Madeline,” he calls past Ingrid, to the frazzled maid who has followed them up the stairs, cleaning Ingrid’s muddy footprints as best as she can. “Could you heat some water, draw a bath for Lady Ingrid here? Wake the kitchen staff as well, have a meal prepared.”

“Felix, you needn’t-”

“Shut up. You’re gross. ...I’m gross as well now, with you hanging off me like this. Make it two baths, Madeline. And Ingrid, you must have ridden all day to get here. I’m surprised you haven’t resorted to tearing the meat from my throat yet.”

“You’re the worst.” He gives her a grin when she pulls away from him, and through her sniffles she smiles for him. “Thank you.”

He gets a kiss on the cheek that he pretends like he hates, before escorting Ingrid to the guest room and instructing her to stay. Felix puts it down to about 50/50 on whether she actually will.

She’ll probably be fine with borrowing some of his clothes while hers are washed, and then once she’s washed, fed, and clothed, they can figure out where to go from there.

That change of clothes is grabbed for her, and Felix is pretending not to notice the unsubtle thunk of filthy boots across the hall behind him. Ingrid always gets this way. She hates being alone when she’s sad. He recalls how she’d clung to Sylvain after Glenn’s death (as had he), and both of them had wailed and sobbed against him for days on end.

Felix is different now. Can’t stand the company when he wants to brood, more like how Glenn used to get. That’s another step into his brother’s shadow.

“If you’re intending to wander around before you’re cleaned up, please take your boots off. I’d hate to trouble the maids with more work.”

Madeline’s going to throw a fit when she comes back.

Ingrid, considerate and courteous Ingrid, gasps like she hadn’t noticed the trail of mud she’s tracked to and fro since arriving. Not figuring it out from all Felix has said and done is mildly concerning. She looks all frazzled as she stammers her apologies. A glance down to those disgusting, mud-caked boots gets her hastily pulling them off. At last she stands, only in stockings on the wooden floor. The maidstaff’s suffering is… not over. Limited from what it could have been.

It takes about three hours to get through everything, and the sun is rising by the time Ingrid is clean and has gotten a proper meal down her. Felix is exhausted, as is she, as are the staff. Considering Rodrigue likely has no plans to return from whatever hell he’s unleashing on the imperial invaders this month, Felix figures that it’ll be fine to up their wages a bit for all this.

The rest of the staff are stirring when they finally head to bed. Ingrid’s being less clingy now, showing herself considerate of how Felix hates getting all touchy-feely with anyone. This manages to annoy him  _ more _ , since it’s leaving him as the one with the responsibility of making the offer. Hard to act tough when he knows she’s not  _ really _ ready to be left for the night. Morning. Whatever time it is.

“If you still aren’t feeling yourself, you’re free to join me in my quarters.” Ingrid quirks an eyebrow. She’s exhausted, yes, just not quite exhausted enough to skip out on giving him one of her looks that usually stay reserved for Sylvain. Felix, horrified, rushes to course-correct. “Not like that! You know I -  _ anyway. _ If you need anything… yeah.”

That’s how he ends up with Ingrid snuggled against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around him. This sure isn't how Felix had expected this morning to end up. It’s not like leaving her on her own was an option! 

By now he’s thinking he’ll have to come to terms with how he’ll never be as heartless as he feels.

“I miss Glenn,” says Ingrid out of nowhere. “To make such a drastic change to my appearance without him around is awful. I have to wonder what he would have thought of what I’ve done to my hair.”

Felix grits his teeth. Glenn’s a painful topic for them both. The last time he came up between the two of them, it was because Felix had used him as a means to lash out at her. He’d regretted that instantly. An apology would be the right thing. Or would’ve been, all those years ago. Ingrid’s probably forgotten all about it.

They don’t mention him much. Don’t see each other much.

“Please, can you imagine him saying anything other than ‘you’ve made a real mess of it’? He’d be sitting you down and neatening it up.”

Felix knows from his own personal hair-cutting experience. Glenn had found him, put 90% of his strength toward not laughing in his baby brother’s face, and then sat him down on a stool in front of a mirror and fixed it for him.

He could use Glenn’s skills now, between Ingrid’s disaster and the fact that either the stress of the war or the newest batch of potion mix that Claude’s sent his way has his hairline rapidly receding. The half-braided combover he’s using to hide it looks terrible, but it works.

“And who are you to talk about changing without him around? You’re still  _ Ingrid _ , at least.”

It’s a bit harsh, maybe.

“You have a point. I suppose, compared to you, I’m basically the same little girl I was when he was alive. And you, Felix, are… well, Felix.”

“Is that an insult?”

He’s asking in earnest. While not the answer he was looking for, he finds himself feeling the teeny-tiniest bit of relief when Ingrid laughs before answering.

“On what planet would that be an insult? I think you’ve grown into a fine young man. Attitude aside, anyway. ...And perhaps you could stand to be a touch more chivalrous-”

Felix cuts her off with a long, drawn-out groan and a shove.

“I  _ will _ punt you onto the floor. We’re not doing this right now.”

“Fine, fine.” He can’t see her face, and yet Felix is sure she’s rolling her eyes at him. “We’ve had that fight before, we’ll have it again, I assume.”

“It always seems to come back to that.”

Felix has been cruel about her ideals for longer than he can remember. Again, he considers apologising for it all.

The thing is, he doesn’t want her to care for him anymore, doesn’t want any of them to. That’s the problem. If he apologises, that’s more of a confirmation that he cares. The more they think he cares, the more they’ll care in return. The more likely they’ll become to throw their lives away for him. He can’t have that.

...He can’t keep acting cold forever, either. With a sigh, Felix pulls Ingrid closer and decides  _ fuck it _ to himself.  _ Fuck it, she won’t tell anyone. _

“Your strength is admirable, Ingrid. It takes guts to stand up for yourself like you’ve done.”

“What? This isn’t strong, I ran away, I fled-!”

“You escaped a restrictive situation. Like…”

Is he going to do this? Throw away all his hangups about these things for the sake of making his friend feel better?

“Like a knight. Glenn used to read us those books. You remember the lady knight, locked away in a dragon-guarded tower? The one who broke out and escaped all alone, returning to her territory to slay the wicked stepfather who imprisoned her? I think getting out of there has made you a little more like her. ...Aside from the killing her dad part.”

Yes. Yes he is.

It works, and Ingrid laughs again. Felix is glad. Does all he can not to show it, naturally, but he is.

“You are full of surprises.”

“And now that I’ve been nice, you should be shutting up and falling asleep. I’m going to deny this ever happened in the morning.”

* * *

They spend the next week or so writing out letters.

One to Ingrid’s father from Ingrid herself, politely explaining how she would, at the very least, prefer to postpone the search for a husband until their position with the Empire is a little less precarious. Until the war seems to take an ending turn, if that’s possible.

One to Ingrid’s father from Felix, stating bluntly that Ingrid will remain in Fraldarius until she wishes to return home, and that any suitors finding their way to her will,  _ at best _ , come away with a dent shaped like the Aegis Shield in their heads.

One to Sylvain, from the both of them, letting him know what’s going on.

Sylvain shows up a week later, declaring it a sleepover like they’re all little kids again. Except Glenn’s dead and Dimitri’s dead and there’s a world of political troubles that the three of them are dealing with. They manage.

Ingrid gets her hair neatened up by one of the maids. Sylvain flirts incessantly with the same maids. Felix feels like he’s seventeen again with how carefree the atmosphere is. He’s not, and never will be again. The school is in ruins. Half the class is dead.

It’s depressing to think about.

When they’re all training one day (or rather, Felix and Ingrid are training - Sylvain is sat off to the side sipping a drink), Ingrid downs Felix and stands triumphant over him.

“Impressive,” he murmurs as he gets back to his feet. “You haven’t been able to do that since we were seven.”

“I’ve been getting in some extra practice.”

He can’t read the expression on Ingrid’s face as she stabs her lance into the dirt. She wipes her brow, cracks her neck, then speaks again.

“I think… I should return to Galatea soon. It’s irresponsible to remain here any longer.”

“Been thinking about it?” While she’s been more her old self lately, Felix has noticed the silences that stretch when she loses herself in thought. “I should’ve figured. You’ve been eating meals like a person lately, not a ravenous beast.”

She half-heartedly swings a punch at him, and Felix ducks. His sword’s tossed away and then he’s flipping Ingrid over his shoulder and dropping her.

She may be getting better, but he’s still the best.

“You’ll never find a wife treating girls like that, Felix!” Sylvain calls out. Ingrid laughs. Felix smirks in spite of himself.

“Should I be taking tips from you?”

“Oh goddess, no.” Ingrid adds. “I don’t think I could bear two of him.”

Sylvain’s up on his feet in a flash, drink set down so he can grab Ingrid by the waist and make kissy noises right by her face. It seems like a fast track to getting punched and - oh, what do you know, there’s Ingrid’s fist meeting his face. Felix snorts, and an undeterred Sylvain turns his advances on him.

“I guess it’s just us, buddy! You and me, keepin’ each other warm on those cold winter nights, us and our three kids and our thirty-eight cats.” He goes a step further with Felix and lifts him off the ground, earning a yelp of shock that in turn has both Sylvain and Ingrid cackling. “Should’ve known it’d be you. Said we’d die side by side, that does imply a whole life together. Me an’ my tiny husband.”

“Never call me that again. Put me down.” It turns out it’s hard to sound threatening when there’s an uneasy quiver in his voice. Damn. “You’ll be sorry, Sylvain!”

And he is. Because when he lets Felix go, Felix tackles him to the ground as revenge.

It’s nice to forget the war and be a little irresponsible sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my original plan was to just bypass the timeskip entirely but then I had the idea to do this and get that quality childhood friends interaction  
or most of them anyway  
sucks for dimitri but you win some you lose some dima. sorry you died allegedly
> 
> I drew art for my own darn fic lmao https://twitter.com/LucDrawsThings/status/1188500184495509504
> 
> anyway felix and ingrid are mlm/wlw solidarity


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix reunites with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon typical violence, blood, death cw!! also smoking, detailed talk of chest/lung injuries, suffocation/choking, and probably-inaccurate pneumothorax snap treatment!

It’s Imperial Year 1185, and twenty-one year-old Felix is sharing a steed with Sylvain yet again, because he still hasn’t learned to ride alone. Alongside them, thankfully not squeezed onto the same horse, is Ingrid. Both her and Felix will be turning twenty-two in the coming months, and neither of them have any intention of celebrating.

The only ‘celebration’ they have in mind is a ride up to what remains of Garreg Mach. A sort of remembrance for those they’ve lost, fittingly held on the date that should have belonged to the millennium festival. They’ll clear out the bandits allegedly infesting the place while they’re there, then… who knows. Sit beneath the Goddess Tower and drown their sorrows, if it’s still standing? Raise a glass to Dimitri, to Byleth, to Dedue, to the classmates whose names have faded from memory, to Lady Rhea, to Glenn, to Lambert, and to Duscur, to peace, to the world that could’ve been? They’ll need quite a sizeable glass for all of those. Felix doesn’t take issue with that.

Fools that they are, they find themselves lost on their way there. It’s been far too long since they rode these roads. Felix has been in charge of the map, and Sylvain insists he’s reading it wrong, and Ingrid in turn insists that Sylvain’s reading it wrong, and Felix can see that Ingrid is looking at it from the wrong angle. 

The thing is, their horses are used to this sort of bickering. They’re smarter than their riders, and as the trio atop their backs bicker, the both of them follow the path trodden into the earth ahead of them. 

The path that happens to lead them to the bloodied remains of a traveller camp.

Ingrid stops mid-rant about how Sylvain has  _ always _ slacked in his geography lessons and the likelihood of him being able to read this map is about the same as that of her dying an old maid, and Sylvain starts a retort about how he  _ does so _ appreciate her confidence in his skill. His words crack and die off before he finishes. Felix hops down from the back of Sylvain’s steed (or more accurately, slips and stumbles off), and draws his sword.

“Scan for survivors. Be on the lookout for lingering danger.”

Off he goes, stalking forward into the destruction. Sylvain pulls the Lance of Ruin from his back. Ingrid pulls Lúin from hers. The mounted duo patrol the borders of the massacred camp, while Felix searches through it alone. It’s grotesque. Pointless death. Felix sees the people that lay dead around him, and knows them to be peasants. These aren’t soldiers, they look as though they could've been a caravan of merchants and their families. How dreadful.

Picking through the broken bodies and ransacked belongings, Felix comes across a total of three people still breathing. Three, from what looks to have been about eighteen to start with. Awful.  He does what he can to heal them, then leads them to stand by Sylvain as he gets back to his search. Every corner of the camp is searched, and when he’s getting ready to give in and switch to burying the dead, he sees movement.

Feebly scraping fragile fingers through the soil, the ruined body of a man gives out mid-attempt to crawl forward, and falls still.

Or… no.

Not the body of a man. Felix knows this face, even with filth and gore masking it.

“Linhardt… von Hevring.”

Those eyes, squeezed so tightly shut in anticipation of the end, snap open. They stare at each other.

“Why…?”

Why is he out here? This is still, _ technically, _ kingdom territory. Far from where he should be. Among travellers. Dressed in dull, dirty clothing. Beaten to a pulp. None of this is right. A trap, perhaps? Somehow?

Even if that is the case, he can’t leave him.

Felix drops to the ground to begin preparing his healing spell. He’s not a medic. His confidence in his abilities is limited to small wounds, but he has to try.

They should have met up with Mercedes for this trip. He should’ve suggested it! She’ll be coming too, they know she will! He knows Sylvain’s kept contact with her! Why didn’t he think to do that? Reckless. Stupid. With only Felix and Ingrid at all versed in healing, they aren’t prepared to deal with near-fatal wounds like this. The first three survivors had made it able to stand on their own. Linhardt… it doesn’t look like they’ll get him there.

While Felix has his internal crisis of what to do, Linhardt’s eyes fall closed again. He chokes out a quiet “H...elp-”, gasping and wheezing for air that’s not making it to him. That’s bad. That has to be bad. Contrasting the reds and browns splattered across him, Linhardt’s lips have turned a worrying shade of greyish-blue.

Felix has to act.

He’s careful in touching Linhardt, not wanting to press too hard as he drags his healing hands over every open wound he can find. Fixing him up completely is out of the question and he knows this, yet if he can get  _ some _ of this dealt with then Linhardt may still stand a fighting chance. If he can get some air in him, anyway.

Flipping him over onto his back seems like it might kill him? There aren’t too many other options, unfortunately. Felix needs to see the damage to his frontside to stand a chance at repairing it. So on he goes, gripping whatever seems like it won’t break on Linhardt to roll him over. Is he making the right choice? Is he helping, not harming? He hopes so. A strangled scream slips from Linhardt when he’s flipped, leaving Felix mumbling a quiet apology before he gets to work. It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in his decision.

Okay.

There’s a boot print stamped right in the centre of his torso, hard enough to have left an indent that stays prominent even through the muck he’s picked up crawling around on his belly. Not the greatest of signs, that. Below that ugly mark, there’s an even uglier wound where it looks like Linhardt embraced a lance. As he leans over Linhardt for a better look, Felix notices his throat sporting peculiar bulges. He reaches to touch them. Not a smart move. It's compelled by the idea of checking to see if he’s choking on top of everything else. The bulges squish disgustingly under his fingers. Pockets of air, trapped in his skin. Gross.

The conclusion Felix comes to is that none of this can be good for Linhardt's health.

The lance wound is something Ingrid will have to deal with for him. As much as he may act otherwise, Felix knows his own limits, and knows the time to play with them in this particular area isn’t when there are lives on the line. Another scan around tells him that if there are bandits nearby they’d be upon him by now, and so he calls out for Ingrid to  _ get over here and help already! _

She'll take her time. Until she arrives, Felix has to do something.

Broken ribs and punctured lungs. He’s grown pretty damn familiar with them in his time. He’s better at caring for himself nowadays, yes, yet even so the occasional damage is inevitable. All that experience means he’s gotten decent at knowing how to deal with them. That's an upside, somewhat. It might be agony to deal with, and the shock’s a risk - there’s no knockout potions around here, and in this state Linhardt likely wouldn’t appreciate Felix’s own usual method of ‘administer a gentle Thunder to his own chest to make it go tingly and numb’ - but in spite of that, it has to be done.

“This will hurt,” is probably the least comforting thing he could say here. Linhardt exhales a reedy breath. “You’d better not die. That would be irritating. I want to know what you’re doing out here, Linhardt, so you’d  _ better  _ be able to tell me later.”

Digging through the satchel at his hip, Felix pulls out the classic go-to for this situation. A thick, covered needle, cleansed in fire and reinforced with who knows how many blessings from Mercedes over the years whenever she’s come and gone.

Felix knows this is stupidly dangerous. He knows if he does it wrong, Linhardt will definitely die. And he knows that he doesn’t have firsthand experience doing this, because it’s not really something he can do himself when he needs it. This also isn't the kind of tube that stays in for long periods. He doesn't have that kind of thing with him, nor does he have the magical skill to conjure the shape of one as Mercie and Ingrid do. So all that adds up to an enormous risk factor, which brings him back around to thinking about his own limits, and how he shouldn’t do this if he doesn’t think he can because life is on the line. Unless he’s certain he can do it right, he shouldn’t attempt this. He should wait for Ingrid, if nothing else. She can help. Except Linhardt is shuddering, and croaking, and slipping away from him. Felix needs to do this.

That leaves only the question of _can he do this right?_ And the answer…

Well, of course he can. He’s Felix Hugo Fraldarius.   
  
That’s why he finds himself opening up Linhardt’s shirt, peeling away the remainder of the soaked and stained fabric from his skin, then pressing his palm to the dirty flesh and letting what little magic he has seek out the injuries. He screws his eyes shut, concentration locked on feeling out whatever inside of Linhardt is broken. His magic runs across the breaks, and Felix feels every little crack and splinter and tear. It’s one side, mostly, which makes things easier. Two cracked ribs, one in pieces. A puncture in the wall of his lung, as Felix had thought. These kinds of injuries get so predictable once you’re used to seeing (or feeling) them. 

Alright, he’s had it done to him enough, he can fix this. He can pull the rib back together and stitch up that tiny hole, he just needs Linhardt to breathe in the meantime.

In goes the needle, down moves his casting hand, and Felix mutters his will for the healing aloud. It doesn’t help or anything. All it is is a habit he picked up back in school that happens to have stuck. It’s Annette’s fault, he’s pretty sure. It’s a miracle he isn’t humming one of her songs as he works.

“That looks bad.” is Ingrid’s unhelpful observation when she finally arrives.

“You don’t say.”

She drops down beside Felix and pulls her gauntlets off, grimacing. Mercedes always said that the magic flowed better from bare hands, and Ingrid took it to heart where Felix ignored it. So what, he doesn’t want to be sticking his hands in open wounds! That can’t be good for either party involved.

Linhardt hyperventilates when ingrid presses her fingertips to that raw and messy wound, and she apologises profusely. Felix marvels at how fast the injury closes under the care of someone who knows what she’s doing. He’ll have to fill his minimal free time with Faith study, he notes, deciding that he can’t have Ingrid outclassing him in this.

Their combined efforts drag Linhardt back from death’s door, which, while not completely fixing the problem, is a start. He breathes again, and that’s good! ...Even if it’s shallow and ragged and quick, like he’s too weak to fill his lungs quite yet. That could easily be the case. Point still stands. The fact that he’s breathing at all is the important part. Ingrid forms that familiar magical tube with a prayer, and Linhardt coughs.

Great, now all they've got to do is move him.

The pair of them are careful in lifting him onto Kyphon’s back, and after five minutes of hassle to make sure he’s securely up there Sylvain rounds the corner to show his face. Has he been waiting until the deed was done to approach so he didn’t have to help? Felix wouldn’t put it past him, the bastard.

* * *

From the still-breathing travellers, they learn that these aren’t… _ weren’t _ merchants. Acting such, yes, but they reveal themselves to have been former holyfolk of the Empire. Supposedly, they’ve spent the last five years awaiting some sign that Lady Rhea still lives, and came out this way not out of necessity, but at the request of none other than Linhardt. He’d given them good coin for safe passage to the Oghma Mountains.

Clearly, it didn’t end as safely as Linhardt had hoped.

Felix and Ingrid dig graves, which Sylvain helps the survivors place their kin in. They don’t weep for their comrades, and at mention of it being the goddess’s will for them, Felix has to grit his teeth to keep from lashing out. Their fellow believers died, grotesquely and painfully, to defend someone who may not even pull through. The situation feels way too familiar, and that makes it all the more harder to hold his tongue when they praise the bravery of their fallen.

It's foul.

The lot of them make it into the mountains by nightfall and set up a camp of their own, tucked away beneath a convenient outcropping of rock. No chance of a surprise attack from above here, meaning the injured can take the time to rest easy. Ingrid heads out atop Kyphon to patrol, deciding to give up magic in favour of sight for tonight, and unbinding his wings to take to the sky. It’s good to see her more in her element, just as it’s good to see that old pegasus get a chance to stretch his wings.

That leaves Sylvain and Felix to watch over their four unlucky tagalongs.

“Do you think we’re gonna get ambushed tonight?”

Sylvain’s gone and pulled a cigar from his pack, and now he’s got his eyes fixed on the sky in case of Ingrid’s early return. He’s smart enough to know she won’t approve, at least. Not smart enough to figure that Felix won’t either.

“If you light that thing, I’ll shove it down your throat. They stink.” Sylvain still goes for a match, only giving up when Felix’s frigid gaze doesn’t relent. “...For tonight, unless they spot Ingrid, I think we’ll be safe. No signs of life around while I was scouting.”

“And the little imperial noble we’ve got in there? That doesn’t strike you as suspicious? Dangerous?”

Felix knows what he’s getting at, obviously. He’s no fool. The circumstances  _ are _ suspicious. Enemies of the Empire, taking an imperial lord’s fleeing son into their fold and ending up brutally slaughtered on the border of their sanctuary? All common sense points to it having been a setup. Still, it doesn't feel right. Not with Linhardt left like that.

“His injuries didn’t exactly scream ‘double agent,’ Sylvain. I’m not sure how the Empire operates, but I know we prefer to keep it a rule of thumb that we don’t ram our weapons through our own spies when we launch an assault.” A glance over his shoulder to where Linhardt lays, soundly asleep. “And if we were going to choose someone, I think we’d pick a person less like him. I wouldn’t call him expert spy material, would you?”

Sylvain shrugs, and continues eyeing his unlit cigar. If this continues, then Felix is going to smack the accursed thing out of his hand.

“Maybe that’s  _ why _ they picked him. Wouldn’t you wanna pick somebody you think is incompetent? That’s how they getcha, Felix. Plant a sheep in your midst and let it open your throat in the night. Like a vampire sheep. Dangerous.”

“You’re an idiot.”

There’s silence for a while, broken by nothing beyond the occasional cough or laboured breath from the iwounded. It ends when Sylvain eventually speaks up again.

“Y’know,” has Felix expecting a comment about how actually, one of the ladies among the rescued is pretty cute, or something equally inane. When it continues on in a completely different direction, he has to admit that it leaves him surprised.

“Edelgard asked me to join the Black Eagles, once. Pretty close to when the war broke out. Said she’d overheard me and Mercedes talking about Crests, and blood, and family, and all that. Said my ideals fit in pretty well with those of the eagles. And I took a look at Linhardt, with all his Crest-loving mania, and I refused her. ‘Cause what the hell could have her thinking that me and him share any ideals, right? I was like ‘yeah, she’s a pretty girl, but I won’t fit in over there. Not if those are the ideals she means.’ Now we get here, and I see him like this, and…”

That cigar, still unlit, is tossed out onto the crag stretching up the mountainside. Both men watch it rolling down and away, until it disappears from sight.

“And I wonder if she was right. That’s horrible to think, I know. We’re at war. She’s killed our friends. She’s stolen our people’s homes. And I’m here thinking about whether I should be on her side instead of Faerghus’s. I don’t care that Lady Rhea’s missing. Like, at all. How awful is that? She was hot, and she seemed nice, she just always put out a vibe that made me uncomfortable. When the professor said they didn’t want to give her this bastard,” He shakes the Lance of Ruin, and it pulsates. Ew. “She got furious with them. Not even like the ‘how dare you defy orders blah blah blah’ kind, she looked like she wanted to tear their head off! So I keep on thinking, is Edelgard even wrong? Like invading Faerghus, killing Dimitri, terrorising the land is, yeah. What she’s fighting for, though… is what she’s fighting for wrong? The church sucked, Felix! They made us put Ashe’s dad down like he was a dog, and like - we were kids! Well,  _ I _ wasn’t. That doesn’t change that you guys were! And yeah we were used to it, ‘cause Faerghus raises us to be used to it, and fighting and fire are in our blood and all that crap, but - that’s bad too, right? Life shouldn’t be war!”

Why this is coming out now is beyond Felix. Did seeing Linhardt push Sylvain over the edge, or has this been building for a while? Would it have happened no matter what? It’s better for him to get it out when Ingrid’s not here, he supposes.

“Are you planning on betraying us now?”

Would Sylvain do that to them? Felix hates that he’s legitimately unsure. The way he thinks is a mystery, sometimes. While he'd like to believe in Sylvain doubt still lingers, and he can't be entirely certain that he won't leave him.

“...You know that I can’t merrily let you go if you intend to.”

The idea of having to strike Sylvain down makes his stomach turn. This is one of his best friends. He’s lost one as it is, so what happens if he has to personally slay another? And then tell the third about it? Would the beast explaining it to Ingrid even be Felix anymore?

Sylvain throws up his hands defensively.

“Whoa! Hey hey, no, don’t get all stabby on me. Yeah, I might agree with her reasons, but on principle I can’t side with her! That’d be nuts. She’s done way way  _ way _ more harm than good acting on this whole thing. I can’t justify that." A familiar grin spreads on Sylvain's face. Oh no. That's his 'I'm gonna try and lighten the mood' face. "Besides, what would you and Ingrid do without me around? We need at least one sausage in the pike net. Even if it _is_ trout meat.”

What a horrendous string of words! Though there's a lot to unpack there, Felix isn't going to put the effort in to do so. He'll be much happier if he never has to have those words invade his mind ever again.

“...I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Really? I thought it was pretty clever.”

It wasn’t.

“Still. You’re stuck with me, Fifi. If we’re dying in this war, it’ll be on the same side. And don’t you worry your pretty little head; it’ll be extremely tragic and gruesome, and no one will be like ‘oh, they were sooooo brave and noble’ or anything. I’ll make sure I cry a whole lot and beg for mercy and like, offer to give up Faerghus secrets that I don’t have, so everyone knows I went down with ab-so-lute-ly  _ no _ dignity.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Sylvain’s ‘humour’ nets him a rough shove. He rubs his arm and laughs, even as Felix keeps a fixed glare. It’s a sore topic.

That’s not to say he doesn’t appreciate Sylvain’s attempts or anything, more that there’s no part of Felix prepared to laugh at a joke like that. If there used to be, if some tiny part of him would find it funny as Glenn probably would have, the war has killed it.

* * *

The three holy survivors leave in the morning. They say that they’re returning to Remire if they’re needed again, and Felix isn’t even going to try and understand how they can pick up and carry on their lives after the loss of so many people.

Linhardt is awake, and while moving around is still far from within the realm of reasonable expectations, he can speak. To the trio, that’s good enough to start interrogating him.

“Why would you come out this way, Linhardt?” Ingrid begins, her lance twirling in hand as she paces circles around him. He doesn’t look the slightest bit uncomfortable with her behaviour, opting to stay still and only eye her whenever she’s in front of him. “What could possess you to come out this far? A deadly journey like this, with none of your father’s forces? With the help of ‘rebels,’ no less! Did Edelgard intend to bait out the believers with you? Hm?”

“So accusatory, aren't we...? Nothing of the sort. I grew tired of the Empire’s cruelty, and with the promised class meeting coming up I was hoping to catch at least one lion who would be kind enough to allow me to stay in their territory. I _had_ intended to invite other friends along, initially. Alas, the opportunity passed and it became far too risky to tell anyone of my intentions.”

“Hang on, how did you know about our class meeting? I know you’d tried on more than one occasion to worm your way in, but Professor Byleth never added you to our class.”

Felix is sure he would’ve remembered if Linhardt had ever managed to really join their class. ...Maybe? Actually no, he’s not sure. Linhardt wasn’t really the ‘showing up to class’ type.

“You all were a rowdy bunch. I overheard Annette and Ashe talking about it in the library.”

“And you remembered that for five years?” Sylvain laughs, incredulous. “What if you’d misheard them or something?”

Linhardt hums, musing more to himself than to his saviours/captors. “What indeed?”

He seems calm.

Were all that had happened been his capture by the three of them, Felix wouldn’t be finding it odd. Linhardt never was a tense person, except around blood. It happens, however, that he’s been coated in the stuff for as long as they’ve had him here. It’s still dried into his hair and clothes, and against his skin. Either he’s gotten over his hemophobia in the past half-decade, or something is amiss.

“Linhardt, are you alright?”

Ingrid and Sylvain both gape at Felix as he lowers himself to Linhardt’s level. He checks his eyes and slaps his cheeks and does whatever else he can think of to test his condition, his reflexes, anything he can think to test. His skin almost burns to touch. He's pale as death and somehow cold despite the fever. Does he think Felix misses the way he shivers? That's not even getting into how his eyes aren't quite focused.

“You’re not alright, of course. Damn.”

“I’d argue that I’m quite well...”

Figures that he says that. Doesn’t matter, it must be a lie.. Or a delusion. He's as far from fine as a living person can get.

Felix gets back to his feet, wiping his gloves off on his coat.

“We’ll need to bring him with us.”

Right away Sylvain and Ingrid come out in protest.  _ It could be a danger, or a trap. It could get them killed. What if he’s a spy, what if he’s an assassin, what if, what if. _ Felix dismisses their arguments.

“What’s he going to spy on? A group of rowdy kingdom warriors raising a toast to the dead in the ruins of their old school? Sylvain sneaking off to dirty his hand to what’s left of the statue of Saint Seiros? Oh, yes, I’m sure the emperor will be  _ dying _ to hear all about that.”

When they’re still not satisfied, Felix assures that if Linhardt makes a single misstep he’ll answer with his life. His priority is going to be reuniting them with Mercedes so that she can properly heal Linhardt, and they can worry about whether Linhardt is truthful or not after that. You can’t interrogate the dead, after all, and he's walking the line of that right now.

Unwilling or unable to argue with that, Felix’s friends relent and Linhardt is lifted aboard Sylvain’s steed. Miklan (or Pontoise to everyone other than Sylvain, because calling him by that name is  _ uncomfortable _ ) is as unbothered as ever about carrying two people, but Felix has brains enough to know there’s no room for three. Riding with Ingrid it is.

They’ll be there soon.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obviously none of this is accurate and it's extremely easy to screw up puncturing the pleural layer in an attempt to release the trapped air when someone has a collapsed lung so like?? don't stab people with things lmao
> 
> finally felix isn't the one suffering..... now linny suffers
> 
> also sylvain, except he's kind of always suffering


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix encounters a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for the usual violence and injuries, mentions of animal death, and Felix's less than sensitive thoughts on post-timeskip Dimitri's mental state

It’s dawn by the time the four of them reach their destination. Linhardt’s condition is holding up surprisingly well, and Felix’s hope that he’ll make it to daybreak is steadily increasing. The sounds of battle drawing closer, however, tell him he shouldn’t be getting ahead of himself.

Small groups of bandits scurry their way, as they’ve done for a mile or two now. They try to attack and are quickly dispatched. Such ruffians are no match for the three of them that aren’t half-dead.

When they reach a breach in the crumbling walls of Garreg Mach, the sight that awaits on the other side strikes Felix so hard that he forgets all about Linhardt. Untouched by time, the Byleth of five years ago stands among the ruins, wielding the Sword of The Creator as only they can. It’s undoubtedly them. Sylvain is busy cursing out a bandit as he peels their corpse from his weapon, and doesn’t seem to have noticed yet. Ingrid, far more attentive, gasps.

If the sight of their old teacher wasn’t shocking enough on its own, a hunched, inhuman beast with a mop of shaggy blond hair darts about behind Byleth, dispatching the thieves with messy swings of a scythe. The heavy furs obscure the frame, but when he looks their way Felix recognises the unmarred side of the face.

Gaunt and hollow cheeks, as if his bones kept growing beyond the skin’s comfortable capacity. One eye covered and the other ghastly pale, contrasting the dark bags that sit beneath it. Torn lips, through which oversized canines have erupted. The mighty tusks of a killer beast. The dark armour of a noble knight, glinting in the early sun with the fresh blood of enemies.

This thing Felix looks upon is a monster.

This is the shambling, deranged corpse of Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.

The time to deal with the nausea this realisation brings is later. Felix pushes on, moving with well-honed elegance that keeps his friends marvelling and determined to match his pace. He runs one, two, five men through with his sword. The only pause is to greet the professor, offering them a tired-yet-sincere smile that they, surprisingly, return. It’s nice.

When he finds Mercedes in the chaos, he directs her to Sylvain, and watches to make sure she makes it unharmed. That’s Linhardt’s best chance delivered.

A Cutting Gale takes out a bandit who barely slips out of Felix’s range and, when he looks to thank Annette for her help, she finger guns at him, then takes to aiming her spells at the next unlucky rogue to cross her path.

The man who tries to sneak up on her while her back is to him? He falls to Felix’s blade before he can touch a single hair on her head. She gets that grin that he’s reluctant to show anyone else from him, and Felix thinks on how he’s missed fighting at her side.

He’s dragged from any good thought he may be having by a hardly-human shriek of rage. It’s coming from, predictably, the thing that used to be Dimitri. With its hands, it tears the bandit leader’s head from his shoulders, an act of brutality that seems completely unnecessary beyond being violence for violence’s sake - the wound in the man’s chest that can be seen from a fair distance away tells Felix that he was likely already dead  _ before _ losing his head.

Whether from the sight of such horror or the shock of all that’s happened in the last twenty minutes, his mind goes blank. He’s aware that his friends are all rushing over to meet back up with their professor and prince, yes, yet Felix finds he can’t will himself to move closer. He ends up stood by Pontoise and Linhardt while everyone of fit condition talks.

From what he can make himself comprehend of the conversation, Dedue has died. Died for this shell of a man, this unsightly, abominable  _ thing _ that likely doesn’t have a heart in its chest any longer. A good man died to protect the soiled remains of his friend. Gilbert says they’ll honour his loyalty, and Felix bites down hard on his tongue to keep the bubbling rage in check.

Honour his loyalty? Honour? What is there to honour about this? It’s a tragedy! They should mourn, not praise! Dedue’s way of thinking was incomprehensible to Felix, yes. Treating himself as a tool, lacking autonomy and will of his own, it left a bad taste in Felix’s mouth. That doesn’t make his death good or noble. That doesn’t justify it. Dedue, disagreeable to Felix as he may have been, deserved nothing short of a long and happy life. Faerghus stole that from him, Cornelia stole his second chance, this rabid monstrosity let it happen, and that old, bastardous worm  _ Gilbert, _ of all people, has the balls to speak of honour?!

The taste of iron floods his mouth, accompanied by the sound of his teeth clacking together and a burst of sharp, stabbing pain down one side of his tongue. Felix keeps himself quiet. He stands, listening to his old classmates talk, and makes no move to show that anything is wrong. From the corner of his mouth, a tiny bead of blood leaks.

An unexpected hand brushes against the back of his neck and Felix tenses, whirling to face who else but the still-injured Linhardt. Healing from Mercedes has done him some good, it would appear. Even so, a quick job like that by no means brings him back up to fighting fit. In spite of his own condition, he mutters an incantation and reaches out to brush fingertips across Felix’s lips, wiping away that tiny droplet as he goes. The bloody tang fades away, taking the biting pain with it. Linhardt offers a weak smile.

* * *

Felix’s anger hasn’t subsided yet when everyone decides to call Garreg Mach’s ruins their base. He’s shaking in his rage as he strips his armour away and dumps it all in his old bedroom, changing into his eveningwear. And he’s frothing with fury as he walks the old, crumbling halls, and makes his way to the infirmary. He has to shove past Gilbert to get in, since he’s carrying the same suspicions that the trio had when they found Linhardt. That’s no matter. If anything, the opportunity to go against Gilbert’s wishes  _ really _ appeals.

“Linhardt,” says Felix, sitting himself down in the chair at his friend’s bedside. “How are you faring?”

“Better than when you found me, I can assure you. Thank you.”

He’s clean. Clean robes, clean body, clean stitches and wrappings. That has to be Mercedes’s doing, she’d never leave someone in need in such a poor state. Linhardt’s doing well enough that he makes the effort to sit up, and Felix catches Gilbert reaching for his axe out of the corner of his eye.

“Stand down, old man. Or do you seriously consider someone in this state a threat? Kind of pathetic, that.”

Gilbert stares. Felix glares. Linhardt continues working toward being sat comfortably. Only when the axe is left alone does Felix dare relax.

Alright, things are fine for now.

“...Anyway, I had hoped to catch up. While not entirely unexpected, I must admit I’m very happy to see that you’ve survived the war to this point. All I’ve heard in the Empire is talk of kingdom territories bowing or buckling, one by one. Knowing you to be, ah…  _ strong-willed _ , let’s say, I had worried you would take to the field and end up cut down. Only a small possibility, I know, and yet I worried nonetheless. Seeing you safe is quite pleasing.”

Is that a long-winded way of saying he expected Felix to die?

“...Likewise. It would have been irritating to hear of your death in this conflict.”

There are a thousand questions he should be asking, and Felix’s mind is drawing a total blank on them all. He’s glad that Linhardt is alive, and beyond that… what?

Aside from Linhardt, he can only think about Dimitri. Dimitri, and Dedue. Dimitri, and Dedue, and Glenn. He doesn’t know why Glenn comes back to him here.

Felix is still angry.

“Regardless. I... don’t intend to interrupt your rest. We’ll speak more of what you know when you have fully recovered. Excuse me.”

He checked in, and now he’s leaving. Gilbert calls after him. He’s using Ser Fraldarius over his first name. That makes him move faster. Why, why is he leaving? Hadn’t he visited Linhardt with purpose? Felix had purpose. Purpose lost, he’s speed-walking away, out of the infirmary, down the hall, to the staircase. Quickly away. To the cathedral, without thinking.

On the bridge Felix stops, puts his hands on the wall as he doubles over, and breathes deep. What’s wrong with him? He can’t think straight. Dropping to his knees, his palms scrape over the stone and it cuts into him. Felix pants. His forehead rests on the wall when his hands hit the floor, and he trembles. There’s thankfully no one around to see this.

_ Pull yourself together, Felix. _

_ Fraldarius men don’t behave in this manner. _

Night goes on. Felix breathes. He gets himself through it. He’s still alone. Still alone, because that’s how he likes it, because that’s how it always is. No one sees this. He drags himself back to his feet, and staggers onward towards the cathedral.

He saw it earlier. No proof that it hasn’t stalked off somewhere else by this time, but it’s the best bet. The beast had walked this way, and he never saw it return. Felix needs to see it with his own eyes. He can’t believe it to be true if he doesn’t.

It’s there.

Shaking like a stray as it kneels before the ruins of the altar. Its frame is obscured by the filthy furs it wears, just as it was earlier. That scythe is clutched in its hands. Able to see it closer, Felix recognises it as a prize ripped away from the Death Knight all those years ago.

“...You. Beast.”

It ignores him. Every step closer to it, Felix starts to hear it more. It breathes loudly, predatorily, and it mutters to itself in words Felix can’t begin to comprehend.

“Boar prince.”

He stops five feet from it. Folds his arms and watches it. He can’t show fear, things of this sort will smell it on him right away. Not showing it doesn’t mean it isn’t there - there’s no mistaking that Felix  _ is _ scared. This is a bloodthirsty beast. Unpredictable and untamed. It could turn on him and tear his throat out in an instant if it wanted to.

He stands firm.

“Leave me, I’ll… I’m working to it… Father, please believe me… Please…”

Father?

He’s speaking to his father? A monster offering prayers to the deceased, perhaps? That’s almost laughable. Or blasphemous.

Another daring step closer, and that’s apparently too far into its space. It looks to him, eye bright with intent to maim and mangle, and the dreadful stench of the form that probably decays beneath its armour hits Felix with full force. He gags, and the beast lunges at him. Its scythe clatters on the marble floor as it wraps a hand around Felix’s throat and lifts him off of the ground. This is where he dies, then?

It watches him, and he watches it. Slowly its grip goes slacker. When it’s loose enough, Felix finds the strength he needs to wriggle free and skitter back a few paces from it. It continues to stare. It’s studying his face, he realises. He doesn’t dare move, hardly even breathes, keeps tense and still and prepared to fight back if it goes for him again.

“...No, no.”

For a second, there looks to be a hint of recognition, something beyond knowing Felix to be Felix. The beast looks stunned. It puts its hands on him again, grimy paws digging into his skin as it holds him steady. He thrashes and kicks and tries all he can to break free a second time, but this awful ghoul’s grip is unrelenting. It leans in close as it continues to stare, and the awful reek of its breath chokes Felix.

“Hey, let me go-! Stupid monster-! Get off of me!” His cries are accompanied by a few hard kicks to the boar’s armour. It does nothing at all, of course, and thus the futile struggle continues. More threats? Will that help? He shouts something in the hopes of  _ any _ change in position. “I’ll sever that wretched head from your body if you don’t-!”

“Glenn, forgive me…”

Next thing Felix knows, he’s being crushed in an embrace. This is a lot. Today has been a lot. He regrets this, coming to check on this creature. It’s too far gone for him to help. 

“I’ve missed you, I’m so sorry… I’m sorry… Forgive me… I beg you, my friend… I swear I’ll avenge you, I swear it!”

That hurts. It hurts so bad. It’s a hurt that leaves his knees weak, and it’s by this hideous ghoul’s grip alone that he stays mostly upright. Something inside of him tears; he’s positive he hears a tear.

“I’m not Glenn!”

The buildup of rage and anguish lends Felix the strength he needs to knock the thing away with one hearty shove. It yelps the yelp of an injured animal and, as it withdraws, its claws rake down his cheeks and most definitely draw blood. It doesn’t matter. Free of its hold, Felix grabs for its lost scythe.

“Listen to me, boar, I am  _ not _ Glenn! I am  _ Felix! _ Do you hear me? Do you comprehend?! Felix! I am Felix Hugo Fraldarius! I am not my brother, I will not fill in for him to soothe your guilty soul! I will  _ not _ be reduced to that! I won’t let you do that to me! I have carved this identity for myself, and I will not relinquish it to you for the sake of easing your burdens!”

The beast lays on the floor and wails, tucking its head away and hiding its face. The sound is grating, painful to hear. The sight isn’t much better.

It’s not fair. Felix has fought to be himself. He fought just to make it to ‘Glenn’s little brother’ at home, and, since the tragedy, he’s been fighting as hard as he can to be Felix. Not Glenn’s little brother, not that accursed old name that Rodrigue has always wistfully called a ‘blessed gift from his mother.’ He is Felix, who never asked for that name in the first place. Never asked to stand in Glenn’s shadow. Never asked to be an heir to anything. Never asked to be raised a soft-hearted child, only to have his father call it weakness when his favourite died. Never asked to play second fiddle to the prince.

He never asked for any of it!

He is Felix, and if his own father couldn’t take that from him, no one can.

He is Felix, and his heart aches that this isn’t Dimitri anymore. Because Dimitri would never find Felix interchangeable with Glenn.

...Is he still in there?

He shouldn’t think about this. It will hurt him. It can’t do anything apart from hurt him and Felix knows it, and although he knows it… he continues to wonder, is Dimitri somewhere beneath all of this?

Felix is no scholar. No healer. He doesn’t understand the mind. He doesn’t know if this is a curse, or a demon, or simply what lies beyond mankind’s breaking point. It had been so easy to try and forget while he was gone, when they weren’t facing one another, when both body and heart were dead to Felix. Yeah, he’d searched a few times, hoped… that isn’t the important part here. Now the body lives again. Alas, the boy he’d loved as a child is seemingly absent. Not masked, as when they were teenagers. Lost completely.

Its heavy sobs finally subside, and it begins to rise again. Observing Felix once more with its empty, glassy eye. It mumbles something else, and Felix hadn’t realised he had any unhurt heart left to break.

“...No, of course… Glenn, you would never… the face, too soft, not strong, it’s not you - couldn’t be you, never you…”

Then it turns its back on him.

The scythe he’d picked up falls to the floor once again, and Felix walks out in silence.

* * *

“It’s kind of nice to all be back together, isn’t it?”

Ashe has dragged Felix out hunting, hoping for some bonding time between the two of them. Though he’s been loathe to do anything aside from keep an eye on the boar over the course of the last few days, Felix is out here on orders from Byleth.  _ You look as though you need a break _ had been their reasoning. He isn’t sure what he needs.

“You know, a generally good idea while hunting is to stay quiet. So that the prey doesn’t know you’re coming.”

While Felix is completely serious when he says that, Ashe laughs. Silly man. Then he carries on talking, not appearing to care at all that he’s certainly scaring off any potential prey. Can’t he tell Felix is in the mood for nothing bar silence and somber atmosphere at the moment? Perhaps. If he can, then he doesn’t care.

“How are things in Fraldarius, Felix? I’d heard you were managing to hold off the Empire exceptionally well over there.”

“Fine.”

He’s curt as ever. There’s a rabbit about twenty paces from them that has Felix’s attention more than Ashe does. It’s not an important task, no; they aren’t all about to starve or anything of the sort if the two of them should happen to return with a poor haul. Felix persists with his priorities anyway. Focusing on the hunt, frivolous and unnecessary as it may be today, is immensely more appealing than talking about his territory or his duty. He nocks an arrow and sinks to one knee, taking aim at the unsuspecting creature. 

Ashe still hangs onto a lot of his pre-war tenderness and is unable to bear watching the kill. He shields his eyes as the arrow is let loose, and keeps them covered while Felix gets the body bagged and out of his sight. He’s not cruel enough to call him out on his distaste for death.

“It’s over, half-knight. You can look again.”

Poor Ashe has always felt too gentle for things of this nature. He’s perfectly good-hearted, well-suited to bringing joy into the world.

Knighthood isn’t a path that will let that happen, in Felix’s opinion.

Knighthood is bloody and brutal. Knighthood is so many terrible things, ending in agony that your kin will celebrate. Knighthood is the glorification of bloodshed. Ashe wants to help people, and he’ll most likely die before he really can. Looking upon his freckled face sends Felix into visions of his cold corpse, slaughtered in pointless battle. Arrows in his skull. Dagger in his neck. Axe spilling the contents of his belly onto the grass. Lance piercing his heart. A well-aimed Swarm spell eating him alive.

These thoughts are happening with more and more people lately.

“Thank you. For being so accommodating, I mean. I know it’s quite foolish, getting this way when I’ve done plenty of killing myself, but I…”

“You’re a good guy, is all. Don’t let it stop you in battle and there’s no problem.’

Felix likes Ashe. He ruffles his hair when they’re back together, and Ashe laughs it off with some complaint about he’s barely a year younger. He no longer has his babyface, yeah. That doesn’t change that Felix can’t help but think of him as much younger than he really is. He’s like a kid brother.

Is this how Glenn looked at him?

“...How are your siblings?”

They get very little actual hunting done after that.

Ashe gushes about his baby siblings, worries over how they’re doing right now, wonders if he should send for them to come to Garreg Mach, or if they’re safer in Castle Gaspard. Felix gets to hear him excitedly talk about how his sister wants to take up the sword, then switch to worriedly going on about how he fears for her if she really wants to go into knighthood with how dangerous it is.

The only thing Felix can think to offer is his own talents. She can’t get hurt if she’s taught properly, and all that. They end up with an arrangement that eventually, provided he survives long enough, Felix will travel to Gaspard with Ashe and teach his sister swordplay. Ashe is delighted. Felix doesn’t want to push a child toward knighthood under any circumstances. Learning the blade from him of all people, though, has a better chance of dissuading her than from most others.

“What do you think of how His Highness is behaving?” is pretty much a slap across the face to Felix with how suddenly it comes up. “I mean, I’m glad he’s alive! Overjoyed! Except… he was always so kind in school, and yet…”

“Now he’s a shell of himself. Forgive my bluntness, Ashe. The Dimitri you thought you knew died long before you ever knew him. He made a valiant effort to keep up appearances before, and he doesn’t feel the need to bother with that at this stage. He’s lost in his own mind.”

Ashe is kind. Ashe is considerate. Ashe surely didn’t mean to trod on Felix’s nerves by bringing the conversation around to the boar prince.

Intention aside, the way he starts up with “Well, there must be a way to get through to him, right? We have to help him somehow!” pushes Felix to a dark place of his own.

He’s done enough thinking about Dimitri in his lifetime. Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri. Dimitri this, Dimitri that, Dimitri all the time. It’s not even Dimitri anymore, and he still can’t escape fucking  _ Dimitri. _

“I’m not talking about this.”

“I know it’s a sore spot for you-”

“ _ Ashe. _ ”

They reach the monastery grounds, and that’s when Felix decides he’s absolutely had enough. With a huff, he shoves the game bag into Ashe’s hands, and goes storming off toward the stables, without so much as a goodbye. It was all going fine until it wasn’t. It was all fine until it came back to Dimitri, as usual.

He needs to go back to the cathedral and keep watch over that demon. Who knows what it could have done while he’s been gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dimitri! haven't we missed dimitri? poor man's not doing so great here, though arguably felix isn't faring much better.  
strap in because we're in for a major claude drought for a couple of chapters! he'll be back eventually, but for the time being we're just going to have to fill the void with linny and the lions


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Rodrigue reunite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for minor mention of pregnancy

The Valley of Torment sure lives up to its name!

Ailell is, frankly, hellish. While he’s more sensitive to Faerghus’s bitter cold than most from the country, Felix would gladly be freezing his ass off on the other side of the valley right now instead of roasting alive in the middle of this hellscape. The horses cringe and hesitate in their steps, and Felix, unmounted, knows exactly why - the ground burns his feet through the soles of his boots. It has to be painful for these poor creatures.

His dad sure knows how to pick his damn meeting places.

Although they undeniably suffer, the horses aren’t saddled with Linhardt, so they have that going for them. Linhardt is a burden at best, for what Felix cares. His recovery is not quite complete. He shouldn’t be out here. Another healer was deemed necessary here, however, and it happened that he was the most available. The not quite complete part of his healing means Byleth insists he stick at Felix’s side, and that means when he sleepily leans against his shoulder as they walk, Felix is compelled to let him stay there.

Clearly, this is because of the instruction he’s gotten from the professor, and not for any other reason. Truly caring for Linhardt as a stable friend, returned to him where another was lost a third time, couldn’t be it. Feeling a teensy bit important, knowing Linhardt doesn’t really like to touch people all that often, couldn’t be it either. It’s because he’s on orders to work with him. Duh.

Up ahead he hears Gilbert blathering on to the professor. Talking about the goddess, her fury, and the judgment she supposedly passed on this place. Felix doesn’t buy into it at all. Linhardt apparently also doesn’t. He snorts with quiet laughter, before speaking barely above a whisper.

“It all sounds to be utter hogwash, does it not? It either invalidates their claims of the goddess being an all-loving, benevolent being… or it’s a total lie. What corruption would justify retribution by destruction? To destroy is oh-so selfish… the sinner can’t repent if they’re reduced to ash.”

Felix hasn’t got much to say to that. He doesn’t think he necessarily agrees with Linhardt on this; the idea that getting rid of something completely is inherently selfish makes no sense. Some things have to be destroyed, lest they go on to hurt the innocent when left unchecked. The monsters of the world must be put down.

None of this is spoken aloud. He’s in no mood to argue in this heat.

Especially not when that unsightly boar cries out, and a charge is suddenly being led toward enemy soldiers. House Rowe’s banner has been spotted. The Gray Lion is their opponent.

Elbowing Linhardt in the ribs isn’t the nicest way to get him up and alert, not when his wounds haven’t fully healed. It’s the method Felix decides to go with anyway. A tiny yelp escapes from poor Linhardt, who then goes quiet when the enemy forces catch his eye.

“...Oh my.”

“Yeah.”

Felix gets to moving, and Linhardt does what he can to keep up. This terrain tests agility and acrobatics more than defensiveness and power, that’s to his advantage. Felix does what he can to lead Linhardt safely along with big, slow strides across ground he can tell to be safe.

On the other side of Ailell, Felix arrives in time to watch his father converse with that monster as though it’s more his son than Felix himself.

Then when Rodrigue lays eyes on Felix? He praises him! For bringing ‘His Highness’ here! Like there’s still a prince in this rotten shell! He stands and scowls as his father goes back to coddling the filthy boar.

When the arguing begins, he can only roll his eyes. Rodrigue whips out his stern, fatherly tone for the beast, and it snarls back about putting words in the mouths of the dead. A glance around shows all others present looking uncomfortable, bar Byleth, who is as unreadable as ever.

Then Rodrigue goes and pulls out Areadbhar.

Not even one so broken as the boar can keep up a single minded train of thought when it lays eyes on the lance. Felix gawks, trying to comprehend the logic of handing something so destructive over to a person already so dangerous. Does Rodrigue hope to see the war end, or does he want more meaningless death, or does he not care if one is reached via the other? The amount of innocent blood drenching this monster’s hands will only increase tenfold when it wields this.

It drops to its knees and weeps over the weapon, while Rodrigue dismisses the great amount of effort he must have gone to in order to salvage it. A thank you, carried on an almost-human voice from its scarred throat, is the last thing Felix expects to hear. His surprise is quickly dashed by annoyance when his old man starts talking about the long-dead king.

Promises to the dead, that’s all anyone in Faerghus ever seems to work off of anymore. Rodrigue works for Lambert’s memory, Gilbert the same. Throw in Lady Rhea for them too, since Felix won’t be surprised if they’re greeted in Enbarr by her bones decorating the gates. Neither of them were that great! Why should their words stand above what the living need? It’s stupid, so stupid. Then there’s Dimitri… Dimitri  _ is _ a memory. He’s not here anymore.

The march back to the monastery begins once the boar has composed itself. The fact that his father will return with them to gives Felix conflicting feelings, none of which he’s going to attempt to talk about at all while they march.

On one hand, the impression of being the unfavourite lingers, something his friends can’t relate to (the crown prince, the margrave’s heir, the sole Crest-bearer of a thin-blooded line, and then Felix, second son and makeshift heir and less important than the prince). On the other, knowing Rodrigue to be safe is… a relief. He’ll continue to deny he has any love left for his father after all he’s put him through, but there’s an infuriating part of him in his head that he can’t silence, telling him that he still loves Rodrigue as much as he did when he was a little kid.

Maybe it will go away eventually.

“Your father is an...  _ interesting _ man.”

Linhardt mumbles, and it doesn’t go unnoticed how he waited until Rodrigue had mounted up and rode off ahead to say that. Nor does it go ignored how he eyes him as they walk. Felix  _ wishes _ he didn’t know what the look on his face means. Is this his taste? Is this really his taste?

“Another word, and you’re taking a dip in the lava.”

He’ll do it. Don’t think he won’t. He isn’t the joking type, and there’s plenty of exposed pools around them.

“You’re dreadful, you know? There’s no need for you to be saying such horrid things.”

“Just as there’s no need for your eyes to be fixed on my father’s ass.”

Linhardt doesn’t respond to that one.

“...My father is a stubborn old man who thinks he knows best.”

The grin that swiftly springs onto his face makes Felix uncomfortable. Linhardt goes from schoolchild shy, all fluttery lashes and wistful sighs, to absolute bastard.

“I suppose we know where you get it from, then. That’s interesting. Would you happen to both bear a Crest? I’d assume so, what with his position and all. I have always been curious if these things affect the personality. My theory is that they  _ don’t _ , but the traits you and your father share are strikingly similar. Could it be you both happen to bear Major Crests? That could be a factor I’ve neglected in my research.”

“Nope. My Crest is major, his is minor.”

Linhardt visibly deflates at the news. Felix doesn’t understand. Had he not said his theory was Crests have no effect on it only moments ago? Did he want proving wrong? Why? That’s so stupid.

“Don’t go making that face. I prefer it to you getting hot and bothered over my dad of all people, sure. That doesn’t mean I feel like dealing with you moping the whole way home.”

“Believe me, I’ve no intention of wasting my time sulking. It is simply a shame that my hypothesis goes uncontested. It’s difficult to prove or disprove as it is. That’s something to concern myself with when we make it back to Garreg Mach, though. Perhaps I should be asking Flayn for her help. Ah, and if you don’t mind, I’ll need to take some new blood samples from you, and maybe from your father? If he’d cooperate, that would be excellent.”

So much for rest and recovery.

“I don’t get you. You go all lightheaded and pasty-faced at blood spilled in battle, then here you are practically salivating at the thought of taking a sample for your studies. You were like this before the war, as well. Might I ask what the difference is? What changes between blood you draw and blood we spill?”

A strange look crosses Linhardt’s face. He chews on his lip, quiet for a minute, two minutes, before finally answering with “It’s not something I can explain easily. I don’t truly know. It’s not that I enjoy working with the blood I take from you - on the contrary, it’s the worst part of my research - although I suppose… it may be down to the blood I take serving a purpose. Maybe? Whereas the blood spilled in battle is pointless.”

Pointless isn’t the word he’d use. There is a point. Not a good point, mind you. This war is stupid. Edelgard, however noble whatever ideals she thinks she fights for are, is stupid. She’s upheaved the whole continent and caused so much death. Dimitri, broken and violent and no longer himself, is stupid. He’ll send them all to their deaths, and has gladly admitted as much. He’s not fit to be leader of anything. Felix, staying anyway and fighting under the banner of such a monster, is stupid.

“It’s all blood in the end, Linhardt. Purpose or not.”

Not a satisfying answer, and it’s met with an equally unsatisfying shrug.

* * *

Felix spends the first war meeting after their return biting his tongue. There’s a lot he has to say about the discussion, and he can feel that most of it will be dismissed outright. All he lets slip is, to his own surprise, an affirmation of the boar’s words. They’ll fight some of those they once knew in the next battle, and the best way to shut down the guilt is to keep moving. Either they’ll miss them entirely, or their faces will be lost in the sea of bodies.

Ashe, Dorothea, and Linhardt are making disapproving expressions at the idea. All three feel too soft for this. He considers suggesting they not join the mission. Hesitation is death in war, and he’d rather none of them fall because they couldn’t bear to kill an old acquaintance.

Later on, he’s forced to go through the displeasure of speaking with his father. A letter to Duke Riegan needs drafting, and Rodrigue decides to try and designate the task to Felix. “Why me?” is asked, of course, but it’s not like he doesn’t know the answer.

“You’ve kept correspondence with him for years. To have aid requested by an ally such as yourself is bound to have more of a weight to it than a formal request from Gilbert alone.”

Felix snorts, making no attempt to hide his thoughts on the idea.

“It’s a time of war, old man. Our ‘friendship’s’ nothing substantial, and it would be a horrible idea to try and build a tactical relationship off of it.”

“Are you hearing yourself?”

Rodrigue looks like he’s been stricken. Goes so far as to take a step back! How ridiculous.

“Nothing substantial? Friendship is what got Lambert and I through that mess in Sreng, and a thousand other battles.”

He thinks he’s being impressive with that. As if the subjugation of Sreng compares to this. As if Felix’s strained correspondance with Claude comes close to the obsessive love Rodrigue had for his king. Felix has known the feelings that grow from being raised as someone else’s, and those are not what he has with Claude.

When he tries to walk away without an answer, his father sidesteps him and blocks the path. Damned old man. It would appear that he has no choice but to continue tearing down his stupid idea.

“Oh, wow, you and the man you were raised to grovel at the feet of used the ~power of friendship~ to conquer people who were nothing to do with us. How fucking noble. This is absolutely the same as that.”

Hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t care for that. Eye contact that can’t be broken away from. He doesn’t care for that either. Felix squirms, and Rodrigue holds him as he chides. “Please, don’t show such disrespect. It was a strategically genius move. We were allowing Faerghus to expand. You don’t object to your home growing stronger, do you?”

“I object to a lot of things you’ve done,” he spits, trying to hide how he revels in the hurt and anger that flash across Rodrigue’s face. Morally, Felix is no cleaner than his dad. Perhaps it’s hypocritical of him to look upon the happenings in Sreng, and then those in Duscur, with revulsion. Here we are anyway. “Then again, who cares what I think? Not you, that’s been made clear.” He swats Rodrigue’s hand away. “You know something funny? I’d always hoped as a child to see Faerghus  _ actually _ be peaceful and noble and fulfilling of its alleged ideals when Dimitri came to rule. Look how that’s turned out.”

“Felix, your words are treasonous.”

Pff. Hardly.

“Then call me a traitor and string me up on the ruins of the cathedral.”

Rodrigue’s frustration grows more and more evident with every word from Felix. He goes quiet a second, searching for how exactly he’s meant to respond to his son’s challenge of having him executed.

“...All I ask - don’t say things of that sort. Help your country, Felix. Help your companions. You’re in a unique position to do so. Why would you want to squander that?”

“Why don’t  _ you _ write it? He’s not an idiot, he knows my family name. If you’re so sure he’ll help based on that alone, go ahead and test it out.”

It’s a terrible, terrible plan to base hope of an allyship off of one single semi-friendly relationship. They’ve not seen each other in years! Their exchanges aren’t exactly of substance, either! Rodrigue should know better than this.

“I’m not helping you with this, old man. You’re the one hoping to cosy up with Duke Riegan, you can do the legwork.”

“Felix, we’re at  _ war _ . You can’t be so selfish as to risk the lives of your comrades out of some childish desire to rebel, can you? This isn’t a game. If we don’t form this alliance with him, people will die. You can’t want that.” Felix is prepared to bite back with a line about how he  _ obviously _ doesn’t want that, and he’d just prefer to have Claude find more solid reason to help than ‘because he likes Felix,’ and then Rodrigue ends off with “Glenn would be disgusted with your lack of consideration.”

_ Oh.  _ That catches him like a jab to the gut.

The wind’s knocked out of him.

We’re going there, are we?

Glenn would be disgusted, would he? Disgusted that Felix thinks it insincere and, potentially, deadly to build a wartime alliance based off of one relationship? A relationship that’s not particularly great? If Felix were to die, and Rodrigue had gone through with building Claude’s trust based solely off of him, where would they be then? What reason beyond Felix would Claude have to help them? It would be much smarter to withdraw and save his own skin if it came to that.

Rodrigue hasn’t thought this through at all! Or it seems that way to him. He can’t understand how his father, famed right hand of the dead king, could - no. No, Felix does understand. Lying to himself about this is a waste of time. Lambert preferred force as his tactic, and Rodrigue has always been much too eager to emulate him. An old meathead like his dad here not understanding his own idiocy isn’t a surprise. Felix has no intention of enabling him.

“There’s plenty Glenn would be disgusted with about this.”

There’s little else to say.

In coming days, whatever story Gilbert and Rodrigue cobbled together proves enough to secure Claude’s consent. They’ll be marching on the Great Bridge of Myrddin within the next few weeks.

Felix has a lot to think about.

How his uncle fares, for example, left running a territory (a territory currently being invaded, no less!) he has no experience with. How the people of Fraldarius fare without he or Rodrigue there. Did Rodrigue expect Felix to go home when he agreed to offer his help? That can’t have been it. Then again, if not the case, why not lead out the soldiers and hand command of them to Felix? He’s not one to take up a position of authority often, no… That doesn’t make him ignorant of the basics. He’s capable.

Is his father here to supervise him? Does he think him that incompetent?

Ha.

Rodrigue would never come here for Felix, who is he kidding. He’s here for the boar. Both of them have lost their minds in one way or another. They deserve each other.

Felix spends his time doing what else, training. He works hard. Harder than anyone else. He bests Sylvain once, twice, thrice. He yells vile words at Ingrid when she sinks into her despair, and it fires her up enough to get her swinging at him with full force. He’ll pay her back later, take her stable duty or clean her armour or sharpen her weapons.

The last thing he expects is Linhardt to wander in, looking terribly out of place in the training grounds. When Felix asks if he’s finally come to beef himself up, he laughs in his face. Figures. No, Linhardt is here to invite Felix to tea, something which almost has Felix laughing right back.

Even so, he agrees. Warns that it will be late in the evening when he finishes training, yet he agrees. Linhardt seems unbothered by that, and slinks away to, presumably, take a nap.

His training goes on. He bests everyone at swordplay bar Byleth, and his frustration at the loss leads to him staying an extra hour. He has to be better. He has to be the best. If he’s the best, he’s the strongest, and if he’s the strongest, he’s going to cut down any and all foes that come at him and his friends. That’s where he needs to be.

When he casts his blade aside to take on Alois in brawl, he notes the old man’s chest. Is it weird? To feel relief, seeing how he’s kept his bust as is? It’s weird to think about that, right? He thinks it has to be weird. Felix only finds himself thinking about it because hardly interacts with Alois, and even more rarely sees him out of his armour.

In a million years Felix couldn’t have guessed that Alois is another of his ilk.

“Your chest. Why not have it changed?” Felix asks bluntly as he rams his shoulder into Alois’s stomach.

It's rude, he knows it to be so, and he shouldn't turn the topic to it without checking it doesn't hit a nerve. Oh well, too late.

Alois picks him up with little effort, slinging Felix over his shoulder and laying his weight on him when they both crash to the ground.

“La - agh, Lady Rhea was supposedly oh-so generous, did she not allow you the time or something?”

Alois laughs and pins Felix. Small and scrappy, Felix flails and kicks until he breaks the hold, then darts around behind Alois and launches his foot into the small of his back.

“Oof! Why, it’s nothing to do with time! I’ve had plenty an opportunity to take leave from knighthood to attend my own matters. It’s not necessary, is all!”

As Felix goes to withdraw, Alois grips his ankle and pulls his feet from under him. He goes down hard, and Alois drives an elbow into his ribs with such force that Felix has to grit his teeth to keep in a pained cry.

“Or ah, well, I should be more truthful, maybe. So! I did at one time seriously consider it, you know. So much so that I’d been granted permission by Lady Rhea herself to take a year’s leave from my knighthood, get in all the rest and recovery and whatnot. And you know what happened?”

Felix can barely breathe from the chokehold he’s been shifted into, but still manages to croak out a strained “What?” at the question.

“My daughter happened.”

Oh, right. He has a daughter.

In spite of how Felix strikes him hard in the chin when he wriggles free of him, Alois carries on smiling fondly. Felix is out of his hold and has skittered across the room to recover by the time it occurs to him what Alois is implying here.

“Wait, _you_-?”

Again Alois laughs, hands on his belly this time. “I sure did! Was meant to be off getting these mammaries marmalised, and then suddenly I found myself upchucking and ballooning and pop! Nine months later I had a beautiful baby girl! My wife was so happy! And by then, well, they were serving a purpose! Getting rid of them would take more time from work for me too, so here we are! My embonpoint endures on.”

Ew. The idea alone of carrying a child turns Felix’s stomach. That will never be the life for him. Nonetheless, he has to suppose he’s glad to know this. Without this training time, he wouldn’t have had the slightest clue that Alois and him have… well,  _ anything _ in common. Not that much changes now, don’t get him wrong. He doubts he’ll be vying to spend his free time at his side or anything after this.  Seeing someone older is nice. That’s all it is. Older and, on top of that, not making the effort to conform. 

Sylvain’s way of life isn’t universal to all but Felix. 

Claude’s hunger for change to himself as well as the world isn’t a necessity. 

Linhardt’s complete disinterest in what people think, though, isn’t the only other way. 

Alois is a man, respected and known as such, and still...

“That’s my tale! Whadda you think, Felix? Was it  _ titillating _ enough?”

Wow! Awful.

The good thing about being mid-training session is that Felix can slug Alois right in the face for that pun, and he can’t get in trouble for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there were so many dads in this chapter. this was the dad chapter.  
there really should've been more puns in Alois's part, but I couldn't think of too many. also Linhardt get better taste in men please I'm begging you
> 
> sometimes while writing this I think 'does gender come up too much,' then I think about how much I just chat about it casually to other trans friends and...... no this is a fine amount


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix argues his perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for death and injury (like actual, named character death this time), reference to parental transphobia, more unsympathetic perspective on Dimitri's mental state from Felix, and some medical/injury-related grossness.

Tea with Linhardt.

The table’s the only one in the plaza with any setting to it, or anyone sat at it for that matter. It’s by the mercy of the canopy happening to be up today that the setup’s safe from the sudden rain that’s come on. While Felix has been darting under outcroppings of stone and stable roofs, Linhardt’s been sat out here alone beneath the canvas, sleeping in his seat. A few of the monastery cats have joined him for his nap, and that would be perfectly fine with Felix if he hadn’t arrived to one of them lapping up the ready-poured tea in the cup opposite Linhardt’s. He’ll be skipping out on drinking that, thanks.

“Oi. Wake up.”

He smacks Linhardt’s cheek until he opens his eyes. The rudest way to do it, sure, yet the results can’t be denied. Linhardt groggily mutters a few choice complaints as he rubs at his sleepy eyes. All of said complaints go ignored, as should be expected. Felix slides into his seat, (very gently) lifts and relocates the cat that’s been drinking his tea to the ground, and rests his elbows on the table. His companion’s nose scrunches at the sight, which is amusing in its absurdity. Linhardt, of all people, caring for table manners? He thinks not.

“What did you want?”

“...My, the weather’s really taken a turn, hasn’t it? I suppose I’m lucky to have caught Catherine before she could bring down the canopy. You won’t mind doing that when we’re finished, right?”

Linhardt smiles at that, like it’s perfectly reasonable that he’s asking this and not at all an admission he’d rather Felix be soaked than himself. Felix scowls.

“Oh… That’s not the expression I hoped for.”

“You didn’t invite me out here to do that, so why _ am _ I here?”

He’s been learning in recent months to be a little kinder when asked along to something frivolous like this, but Felix’s patience is still lacking. More so when he feels like he’s being messed around.

Leaning back in his seat, he folds his arms and holds to his disapproving expression. One of the cats, different from the tea-thieving one, decides it wants to make a seat out of his lap. It’s hard to look intimidating with a cat sat on you, at least outside of very specific circumstances. This, unsurprisingly, is not one of those very specific circumstances.

Felix just looks like a slightly-damp man with a cat chewing on the top of one of his thigh highs.

“Ah,” says Linhardt, as though he’d forgotten he asked Felix to be here. If anyone was going to do that, it would probably be him. “Right, right. I wanted to talk about your father.”

Bad choice!

“No. Goodbye.”

Felix moves to stand. The cat makes his dramatic exit more difficult, and traps him long enough for Linhardt to ask him to wait a minute longer.

“I assure you, this has nothing to do with what you think it does. Watching you interact with him fascinates me, and I’d like to try and understand your stance. I have no ulterior motives.”

That’s nice. Only the thing is, Felix doesn’t care what motivates Linhardt to ask. He hates his old man and discussing him does nothing beyond testing his temper.

“My stance?” he starts, making an effort to look Linhardt in the eye. Linhardt chews on his lip, and doesn’t shy away. Neither of them like this. His skin crawls every second their eyes are locked.

“My father’s proved himself disrespectful of me plenty of times. I owe him no respect in turn, as I owe nobody with reprehensible ideals my respect. That’s my stance. Is that what you wanted?”

“Oh? He seems quite respectful of you. Have I misinterpreted? He uses your name and everything.”

...Again with this? _ Again? _ It’s not. About. _ That. _ It’s hardly ever about that. Everyone else makes it about that! Why is that? Why does it matter? Why should Felix spend his life hearing these things from even the people like him? Why should it be a marvel that Rodrigue has enough brains left in his decrepit, old skull to know Felix is his son? It’s so stupid.

Worse still, is that Rodrigue _ doesn’t _ have those brains that Felix likes to pretend he does, and he knows it. Or thinks he does. Same thing to Felix.

“He also copes with my brother’s death by encouraging me to live up to the ideals that get hundreds of soldiers killed every day, and by singing Glenn’s praises for his gruesome end instead of using his position to make the changes required to prevent more lads like Glenn falling.” 

Felix begins angrily petting the cat. The little beast either doesn’t recognise or doesn’t care about the anger in his pets, and purrs loudly and contentedly before beginning to make biscuits on his lap.

“We have great tradition as a house of military strength, and the old fool squanders it by getting misty-eyed at the idea of men dying in the name of a king we don’t even have.”

“Oh.”

Yeah, _ oh _. Too bad that Felix has been set off now, and the chances of him stopping before going a step too far with his complaints are almost nil.

“If you’re really that interested in why he offers me the most basic level of human decency, I’ll tell you. All of it, every last drop of ‘respect’ he shows me, is misdirected from my brother. He’s the sole reason. My dad didn’t bother showing me this miniscule amount of respect until Glenn died.”

Glenn was Rodrigue’s pride and joy. Felix may be the Crest-bearer, but his brother… Not many young men had his tenacity. His drive. And Rodrigue was softer, once. _ Prove yourself, and keep your inheritance _ is a much more generous offer than most Crestless children get. He fared so much better than Miklan, or any one of Ingrid’s brothers. Glenn was determined to be the heir. Rodrigue was determined to get him there. Felix...

Felix was happy enough to see his brother succeed.

He recalls how his first attempt to come out had gone disastrously, and how it would have been much worse if not for Glenn. Rodrigue, kind and warm in his tone and thinking himself dad of the year, had thought it a childish game and pleaded with him to put aside such fantasies. His mother had humoured him slightly more, and yet still seemed convinced he was making something of an overzealous effort to be like his brother. Or Sylvain. Sylvain was getting on with his social transition around that time. His mother probably thought Felix was trying to be like him. As if.

Glenn, though. Glenn had helped him. Glenn had cut his hair evenly and bought his potions and thrown himself into fights with any who disrespected him. Glenn had been the first to call him Felix. Glenn had been a huge asshole, but a good brother.

Then he died.

It’s always been interesting to Felix how, following Glenn’s death, Rodrigue all of a sudden became glad to treat Felix as his son. How all the extra lessons on governing and economics he had to take on to make up for years of lost learning were watched over by him, or taught personally on some occasions. How no matter the amount of abuse Felix hurled his way, Rodrigue never went back on his change of heart.

He was cruel only once, when he told Felix that death was preferable to dishonour. That Glenn never coming home again was what Rodrigue wanted, if it meant he didn’t shame the Fraldarius name. He called him Felix for the first time that day. Felix still isn’t sure what to make of that fact.

“My father only thinks of me as a _ son _ because I’m a convenient replacement for his ‘real’ son. He’d rather there be no Lady Fraldarius than no Lord Fraldarius of the next generation. So there. Are you happy, Linhardt? Is your curiosity sated?”

Whether correct or not, that explanation makes sense to Felix.

Linhardt coughs.

“...I’ll admit, my interest in that aspect came mostly from a selfish place. It does appear I’ve struck a nerve, though, and that wasn’t at all my intention.” He goes quiet, breaks the agonising eye contact, sips at his drink. “...Forgive me for my presumptiveness, Felix.”

Damn. It’s going to have to keep going. There’s something more to this.

The defeat in Linhardt’s voice, the hesitance, it makes it obvious. There’s a reason for this topic.

Felix pulls himself back from his rage at his perceived position of the family unfavourite, and breathes. There’s a reason. There’s_ always _ a reason. Some people may talk frivolously about any random thing, but not Linhardt. He wants to say something, or know something. He needs something. This has been his roundabout way of getting it. And Felix likes Linhardt, annoying as it is to know that he does. He doesn’t want him miserable, or left wanting, or anything like that.

“What is it you hoped to gain from this? It’s nothing to do with your Crest research, I’d wager. So, what?”

His eyes go wide when Felix calls him out so bluntly. Composure finds its way back to him in seconds, thankfully, and after clearing his throat Linhardt speaks up again.

“I don’t wish to bother you further if it’s a sensitive topic,” he says, like he has any intention of stopping now he’s been invited to speak on it. “I was just curious. About the acceptance. What I’d wished to know… it’s really of no importance in the long run, I’m aware. After all, it’s likely I’ll never see my father again.”

Can Felix imagine that? Living knowing he’d never see Rodrigue’s stupid face again? Never hearing that chipper, eager-to-serve voice he brings out for ‘His Highness?’ Not bickering with him, or insulting him, or beating him in a sparring session? Not having that crushing feeling of being an afterthought settle in his chest when his own blood treats the lunatic prince as more of a son than him?

“All I’d hoped to learn was, uh… well. What’s it like, having a father who believes you when you assert your identity? Right before I left, you see, I had tried to explain myself to my father. Stubborn old git, he is. He laughed me off. Accused me of going soft in the head, compared me to Caspar. Said some frightfully hurtful things about him. Things I didn’t know he thought. I… I didn’t realise that something like that… anyway. I’m sorry, Felix.”

Oh.

“Fuck your dad.”

Crude way of putting it, but it’s the first phrase that comes to mind. He probably deserves the look that Linhardt gives him for that one.

“Please don’t fuck my dad?”

Nope. Not what he meant. No, nope. That’s more Linhardt’s thing, isn’t it? He’s been ogling Rodrigue at every opportunity, so it’s not like he’s one to talk.

Even so, Felix feels his face heat up.

“Shut up, you know that’s not what I meant.” The cat on his lap gets fidgety, and in seconds Felix goes from a trapped-yet-dignified position with it to having it attempting to climb onto his shoulder, kicking him and digging its claws into his shirt as it goes. There’s nothing he can do. “If your father won’t believe you when you explain your own existence to him, then he’s not worth your time. The pride of the nobility can get them good and lodged up their own asses sometimes, so much so that they won’t listen to sense.”

As irritating as he’s being about it, the phrasing gets Linhardt to laugh. Felix feels good about that for whatever reason.

“I do agree with that. Foolish in their pride, most nobles. And I know that, by all logic, I shouldn’t really care about this. It makes me as much a fool as him. I’m not one for mourning in the most appropriate of times, let alone when no one has actually died. Still…”

A sigh, and once more he sags in his chair. There’s a simple answer to this, right? Felix can see it, and pretty straightforwardly at that. Knowing Linhardt to think on a fairly similar wavelength to him, it shouldn’t be too hard to lift him out of his mood.

“Don’t get all soft and sad on me now. You’re not the sort, are you? Grieve the loss of trust by all means, just don’t go letting it bring you down, hold you back. He made his choice. You have the control of what to do next, and it’s unfair to yourself to wallow and reminisce. What’s done is done.”

That cat finally gets bored of crawling all over Felix, and hops down onto the table to make its way over to Linhardt.

“He has no impact on your future anymore. None on your present, either. You didn’t leave because he drove you out, you left for your own ambition. Isn’t that right?”

“...Ambition is pushing it.”

Yeah, no, he’s not an ambitious person.

“That aside, you understand what I’m getting at. You’re your own person, with your own path that his opinions on you have no bearing on. While it is certainly preferable to have a relative with enough basic decency to respect you, who gives a damn what they think if they lack that? You’re not seeking their approval. All they’re managing is proving themselves bigger fools than we’d first thought. Fuck our dads.”

A pause, before Linhardt responds simply with, “You should really rephrase that.”

* * *

  
  
The mission at the Great Bridge of Myrddin could be going better.

A demonic beast races at the lion army, and Byleth waves their hands around frantically as they give their orders. Felix is ordered away from the demon, instead tasked with getting rid of the sniper that’s already left poor Mercedes with two arrows in her shoulder. He looks back in time to see the horrid thing lift Ashe from Loog’s back and fling him into the air. No time to worry about him. Ingrid will surely save him.

Byleth and the boar flank Felix as he moves for the sniper, breaking off to charge at the approaching cavalry while he takes down that blasted marksman. A quick and clean kill - the guy was too focused on trying to pick off mages to see him coming.

When the deed is done, his next task is declared as keeping Flayn on the move, so that she can back up the brute force of their leaders with her magic. Easy enough. He grabs her wrist and yanks her along. Infuriatingly, the damned boar won’t slow its pace, and it makes a sharp turn and disappears from sight as soon as it leaves the path. Screams sound, as they always do around it.

As they run, Felix is focused more on his goal of keeping up than on what’s underfoot, and that’s a mistake. He trips. Flayn comes crashing down with him. He bites his lip to hold in curses that would be improper to speak around her, and scrambles his way back up. What took him down is… ah.

A body.

Flayn gasps, her hands shooting up to cover her mouth. Felix expects she'll scream or something, should she remove them. He can’t blame her for the reaction; she’s such an empathetic little thing, and this is an especially terrible thing to come across.

Poor Flayn.

And poor, poor Ferdinand von Aegir.

Felix never strongly cared for Ferdinand in school. Never found much reason to interact with him. He was an excellent sparring partner, he remembers that and practically nothing else.

In spite of that, he knows that Ferdinand was dear to a few of his friends. Linhardt, and (reluctant as she was to admit it) Dorothea, and, of course, Flayn. They’d been close before the war.

His armour is bent and broken at the midsection. The exposed flesh beneath is mangled, run through with Areadbhar, no doubt. Glassy, sightless eyes stare up at the sky as his mouth hangs open. His expression is nothing close to peaceful, and instead makes it seem he was writhing in agony right up to his last moment. That kind of end has to have been painful. Felix pities him.

Flayn gets up, and Felix grips her arm when she's on her feet again, expecting that she'll break down here and now if he leaves her be. She brushes him off, letting an Excalibur fly at an approaching foe. Felix finds himself surprised. As the enemy falls, Flayn's focus flicks back down to Ferdinand's body. Her eyes well with tears. Felix doesn't bother with touch this time, taking a step forward and, as he speaks, bringing out that soft tone he reserves for her and a few others.

“We can’t afford to stop now. We’ll bury him at the monastery when we go back, I swear. Then will be the time to process this. We have to fight until then.”

"I know this."

There’s a strange look on her face. A look that should belong to a person far older than Flayn. The look of a tired soul, one who’s seen needless death time and time again. It’s the look of an old and weary warrior. Someone who’s lost people this way before.

"Let us continue on. The professor hopes to have us at their side, and it would not do to disappoint them here."

He doesn’t like seeing that expression on her. Felix finds he has to look away.

Across the way, Byleth stands over another familiar face, their sword held back as they offer the crumpled figure a hand. Lorenz Gloucester, if Felix is remembering that right? The pompous bastard that was always bickering with Claude. Now he’s broken on the ground, his steed slain beside him. Yet Byleth doesn’t kill. Byleth shows kindness, and Lorenz reaches back, and -

And that accursed beast flings itself upon Lorenz, intending to tear him limb from limb. Byleth intervenes and defends him as best as they can. Flayn shouts for Dimitri to stop, to focus on the soldiers still advancing rather than attacking a dying man and his own ally. The boar doesn’t listen.

There are quite a few reasons that Felix would prefer Byleth stay alive, meaning there’s no choice but to throw himself onto the monster’s back and try to drag him off. He’s not strong enough to hold a creature like this back. It will tear Lorenz and Byleth apart in its rage, and Felix won’t be able to stop it.

“Your Highness-!”

Of all the familiar faces expected to appear on this mission, Felix has to say that Dedue was the lowest on the list. Dedue, allegedly dead, appears astride a scarred-up wyvern, swooping in to do what’s best for the boar prince, as he always has tried to. He grabs the beast’s scruff and drags him away from Byleth. Felix gladly lets him go, instead moving to combat the enemies that still surround them. Flayn helps Byleth up and sets about tending to the badly bloodied Lorenz as the two swordsfolk get to work.

There are a thousand questions, and no time to ask for answers. Dedue lives and they have to accept it with no time to rejoice.

The events of this battle grow ever-stranger. Dimitri resurfaces on the monster’s face, briefly, staring with stunned awe in his eye at the supposedly-dead man whose wyvern holds him in its grip. Forgoing his usual stoicism, Dedue smiles.

“Apologies for the late arrival.”

When released from the hold of the wyvern, Dimitri scrambles up its back to grasp Dedue’s face and marvel at the fact he lives. It would be sweet if his palms weren’t painted with Byleth and Lorenz’s blood.

Something changes in him from there. He’s - _ it’s _ still not humane in its actions, and yet, it seems to hesitate when it kills. Even Ladislava, who cries out for Edelgard when she dies, fails to earn his usual contempt-filled sneer.

Quite intriguing.

Further catching Felix’s interest is how Dedue seems uncomfortable watching the beast do its thing. Never had he seen such a look of unease on him in their school days. Here, Dedue is throwing concerned sideways glances at the boar prince every time another body falls limp.

Dedue watches Dimitri. Felix watches Dedue.

Felix doesn’t pay attention to the desperate imperial soldier that charges at him in a last-ditch attempt to make some sort of headway. Dedue, however, does notice. He breaks away from the mess of a creature that’s pulled him into another embrace, and cuts the attacker down. The lance end that would have splintered Felix’s own skull bounces harmlessly off of Dedue’s armour. His axe swings no longer lack in form, and the kill is as clean as one of Felix’s. Maybe cleaner.

“I could learn from that.”

* * *

First night back at the monastery, they regroup. Lorenz, not yet properly healed, is carted off to the dungeons and presumably dumped there until he’s fit enough for Byleth to ‘interrogate.’ That’s stupid. Byleth definitely takes him at his word, and Felix can see that having the heir of House Gloucester on their side is a valuable asset. Treating him like dirt won’t help a thing.

Everyone spends their evening welcoming Dedue back into their ranks. Felix forgoes the welcome, instead having a small conversation with Dedue about not throwing himself into danger for his sake before leaving to train.

Hours later, Dedue does joins him, claiming he can’t sleep and that ‘His Highness’ is back to brooding. This is the first time Felix notices that, out of battle, he’s supporting himself on a cane. When he pushes for reasons and specifics, Dedue explains the wounds he’s suffered these last few years in grim detail, concluding only with a point about how it’s impolite to ask things like that. Fair enough.

His wyvern, it turns out, is doubling as a sort of battle-ready mobility aid. Felix is impressed with the ingenuity of that. Impressed further with how Dedue rides at all, considering he was infamously bad with the animals once over.

Direct as he is, Felix brings that up and is met with laughter. Dedue explains how he’s trained with his Duscur brethren. Some of them spent time in Almyra and picked up a few new tricks over there, and, in turn, they’ve taught him. After they spar, Dedue takes Felix to the stables and introduces him to his wyvern. Amaru is a great big thing with tattered wings and piercing eyes, and he shows himself to be as gentle as they come, overtaking Dedue in a barrage of sloppy wyvern kisses as soon as he lays eyes on him. A lot of things have changed since they last spoke before the war.

Second night back at the monastery. Dedue asks for Felix’s help. The boar has been behaving oddly since his return. It spends every moment it can by his side. The ravings about revenge continue, yeah; they’re not just going to stop out of nowhere. Things are still different. They’re less frequent. He seems more capable of conversation, at least with Dedue.

Some things, however, are too taxing for a lone man to muscle through. Especially when said man’s battle scars limit his range of movement. Which means, when he can’t bear the stench of rot and unclean wounds that wafts from beneath its armour, and is the only one capable of convincing the disgusting thing to bathe, he needs help.

“Why me?” feels like a reasonable question. This is a lot to ask him, for having only been back a day or so. There are surely others who’d be more comfortable with this. Felix is a lot happier when he’s not around that reprehensible creature, anyway. “Sylvain is physically stronger than me. As are the old men. You could ask any one of them.”

“I did ask Sylvain first. He insisted you’d be better for this job.” Damn that man. “Yours and Annette’s fathers, I’ll admit, I’d prefer to avoid. Gilbert, especially, puts out a vibe I’m uncomfortable with.”

Can’t argue with that.

So. Dedue and Felix are leading the boar along to the baths. It doesn’t make any attempt to resist. On the contrary, it’s eerily calm. Felix doesn’t trust it.

Disrobing it falls to him to deal with, and ends up a matter of holding his breath and stripping it down. None of them ever smell great when they return from a campaign, but this is something else. Being this close brings back the unpleasant memory of how it had grabbed him in the church, and of how it called him by his brother’s name, and how it sobbed and wailed and turned away from him.

He grits his teeth and peels off the disintegrating remains of the monster’s undershirt. Beneath it are injuries. Every last one of them is unhealed and oozing and probably on the verge of putting it in danger, and if Felix wasn’t grossed out before then he definitely is now.

“When the hell did you get _ these? _”

It shrugs. Unhelpful.

“Filthy boar, I’m going to have to take you to Mercedes and Marianne after this.”

Marianne’s only been here a few weeks. After hearing of Dimitri’s return and successful rendezvous in the Valley of Torment, she’d arrived all alone, allegedly with Claude’s blessing. She’s barely interacted with the boar prince since her arrival, and Felix knows her to be hanging onto memories of the man it used to be. This will be a lot to drop on her for a variety of reasons. She _ has _ been hoping to pick up Restore from watching Mercie work, however, and this would be a prime opportunity to do so.

“It would be a waste of effort,” retorts the stubborn monster.

Felix grits his teeth. What a stupid creature this thing is! If it dies, then the army falls apart! Dying of sepsis from a dirty cut because it refused treatment is completely _ asinine! _ Does it not understand that?!

“Listen-”

“Your Highness, I must disagree with that,” pipes up Dedue, stepping closer to examine the wounds. Right away, the beast goes from hostile to docile when he steps into its space. “It would not do for you to fall before meeting your goals. I’d hardly be able to live with myself if I lost you again so soon.”

There’s quiet for one, two, three seconds.

“...Fine,” concedes Dimitri, the feral look in his eye fading away. “They... may treat me later.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Dedue really knows how to work him when he sets his mind to it.

His ugly injuries aside, it’s startling to see how _ small _ Dimitri is when stripped of his furs and armour. Every little bone, every angle and edge of his skeleton sticks out prominently through his skin. His distended belly sports sickly, greyish skin, decorated with purple and red lines and splotches that Felix can’t identify the cause of. He’s retained as much muscle as he can, but seeing him like this makes it clear that his fits of violent rage have been fueled mainly by the power of his Crest.

They sit him in a clean bath, and the water’s gone thick and brown by the time they coax him out again.

Thinking about the years worth of grime they’ve scrubbed off of Dimitri is, frankly, sickening. Dedue reassures him that they’ll return to bathe themselves once Dimitri is dealt with, and that’s all that’s keeping Felix from calling it quits and walking out when he’s asked to scrape a layer of what they can only presume to be pus off of the area surrounding one of the numerous festering sores. This is rocketing its way to becoming the lowest point of his whole life.

Dimitri goes to climb out, and splashes Felix with the putrid water on his way. Felix freezes. Dedue freezes. Dimitri, uncaring, keeps moving.

“...Alright.”

An apologetic Dedue deals with disposing of the water, assuring Felix it’s fine and that he’ll get this sorted if can keep an eye on Dimitri momentarily. Dimitri, who now is moving for his rancid armour. Felix moves quick to put himself between him and it.

“Move. I wish to dress.”

“Not in those.”

The underclothes need to either be washed or incinerated, and he’s uncertain which is better when they’re in this state. The armour will need proper cleaning, disinfecting, shining, buffing… a lot, to make it presentable. If making him king of a dead country is the goal, he should at least look the part if he can’t act it.

“Do you wish me to remain bare, Felix?”

Felix’s face burns, and he scowls. The huff of poorly disguised laughter from behind him doesn’t go ignored. Thanks, Dedue.

“I have no desire to expose myself to the cold. Or to you, for that matter.”

Ouch.

“No - no one wants to see your blasted crown jewels, boar! _ However, _ we also can’t leave you wandering around in armour that’s _ growing fungus _ on the inside of the breastplate. We’re putting you in some clean clothes, and we’re handing your armour off to… I don’t know, that girl we picked up for laundry or something. She’ll clean it up, and then you can have it back when it’s actually safe for a human being to wear. Since you’re almost one of those, you don’t get a choice in this.”

The pair of them stare one another down, unmoving. Dimitri glares. Felix glares. Felix also, internally, debates to himself if the thing calling itself Dimitri is more man or beast at this time. He’s inclined to go with the former, although it’s not an easy thing for him to discern. When Dedue breaks the tension by tossing clean clothes to the naked prince, the standoff finally comes to an end and Felix is granted the gift of being able to take his eyes off of Dimitri.

They escort him to his old room, which Dedue appears to have cleaned up in advance. He goes the extra mile for Dimitri as always. Felix stands awkwardly off to the side as Dedue puts Dimitri to bed, and pointedly stares at the ground when hardened beast becomes whimpering child. In a soft voice, Dimitri whines about being left alone again. Dedue reassures him that he’ll stay until he sleeps, and… he does. Felix has no interest in watching someone nod off, leaving hurriedly to go wash Dimitri’s stench off of himself.

By the time Dedue joins him, he’s already sat in the baths, going over strategies in his head for what he’ll do if the monastery happens to be attacked right this minute. The stink of whatever Dimitri rolled in still taints the bathhouse air, and Felix has to hope that it won’t be a permanent fixture.

“Apologies, I hadn’t anticipated things going quite like that. I have gotten him to agree to see our healers in the morning, so there’s that.”

Felix scowls, as he usually does. Dedue waits for some sort of acknowledgement or answer, but gives in and carries on when it becomes clear he’s not getting it.

“His Highness has changed while I’ve been away from his side. He’s... become a different person, almost.”

“Pff,” Felix exclaims, waving his hand dismissively. “You haven’t seen the half of it. He’s behaving semi-decently again now that you’re around.”

What sort of face would Dedue make if he saw the delusion-addled state Dimitri had often worked himself into? When he paced the monastery grounds at night rather than sleeping? What would Dedue do if Dimitri mistook him for another ghost of the past, convinced himself that he’s just manifesting to torment him? How would he respond to that? Felix doubts he’d feel the same contempt that bubbled up inside of himself.

“Is that so? ...I see.”

There’s an uneasy look on his face. Dedue chews on his bottom lip, gaze fixed on the back of his hand as he thinks.

“Felix… do you recall something I said to you, five years ago?”

“I recall a few things you said five years ago. You opening your trap was akin to a special event, it’s so rare.”

The chuckle he gets for that has no humour behind it.

“I’m completely serious. I have no idea what, specifically, you refer to.”

“You’d approached me one day, aggressively. Called me His Highness’s dog. In kind, I corrected you. I told you that I was his sword and shield, his tool and nothing more.”

He’s never been a polite man, Felix. It’s his downfall on occasion, and he knows it to be so. He’d brushed Dedue off in an equally rude way yesterday, once again taking things a step too far, stumbling once confronted with the realisation that he does truly care for Dedue’s well-being. He’d taken the time to commemorate him when he thought him dead. He’d felt relief when he caught sight of him in that battle. Dedue, like it or not, is a friend to him.

And Felix has treated him like shit.

“Right. You echoed such inane sentiments when you returned to us at Myrddin. What about it?”

“I… feel that I may not have been completely honest. All that time ago, I’d looked upon His Highness and thought that I knew the darkness in his heart. I thought that darkness couldn’t come close to those hypotheticals you’d asked of me, to the slaughter of children and kin. I’ve heard people’s tales about him these past couple of days, though, and… my gratitude and loyalty has its limits.”

He stops speaking to pour water over his hair, then continues on.

“The goal that I should have held from the start was to keep him from reaching a state where slaughter is inconsequential to him. He… Dimitri is a kind man. That kind man is still inside of him, even if sealed away beneath this shell he’s built himself from his hatred and pain.”

“Where are you going with this, exactly?” snaps Felix. “I know all that. I know that the beast was once a man, I’m not an idiot. I knew him before he was a beast, before he was a beast masquerading as a man, even. I know he used to be kind. That person is _ gone _. So, where are you going?”

“You interrupted me. Where I was going, is that I’ve decided to change what drives me. Chatting with Mercedes and Ashe, it’s convinced me. I have two hopes for the future now, and my first is that I am going to help His Highness. I may not be able to restore his old self, but I hope to help pull him from the depths of his hatred. If that is possible, perhaps he’ll start to heal, and maybe, eventually, he won’t hunger for revenge anymore.”

Awful as ever, Felix scoffs at the idea.

“Dedue, he’s _ gone _. Nine years ago, Dimitri died and the boar was born, and there’s no restoring one and vanquishing the other.”

He’s been fooled today. He started thinking of it as human again, when it’s not. It’s a monster puppeteering his friend’s corpse. Felix can’t, won’t, _ shouldn’t _ forget that.

“As far as I’m concerned, my Dimitri never returned from Duscur.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree with you there… or, no. No. Let me rephrase that. You’re completely wrong. Utterly caught up in your own narrative. Ironic how you’re so quick to call him ‘boar,’ when you yourself are so unbearably pigheaded.” 

Felix clenches his fist, hitting the surface of the water he sits in to little end other than getting out some of the building fury. Unlike him, caught up in his rage to the point where he’s shaking, Dedue appears perfectly calm and collected as he glares daggers. 

He’s going to scream at Dedue for the insult, except Dedue cuts him off and continues to speak.

“The little boy that saved my life had already borne witness to unimaginably heinous things, and he came to my aid anyway. I would have perished with my family if not for him. If he can survive such an event and remain kind, then we can help him be kind again. ...Or perhaps someone as jaded and cynical as _ you _ can’t, but I and Byleth and His Highness’s other friends can. Because we care about him.”

That’s it.

“Do _ not _ accuse me of not caring! You’ve not got the slightest clue what you’re talking about! That boar is - ! He’s - ! You - you don’t understand!”

“Then, explain it to me. Explain how Dimitri is an irredeemable monster, and how that hurts you more than anyone else. Explain it to me, Felix. Tell me every last detail that has made you lose your hope for him, so that I can counter each and every one.”

And he can’t. Whether through frustration or stage fright or something else entirely, his mind blanks on him and he can do nothing more than grunt and splash the bathwater at Dedue, before accepting his loss and muttering, “Good luck to you, then.”

He’ll be amazed if anything they do is worthwhile.

“Thank you,” says Dedue, in a tone so sincere that it makes Felix wants to punch him. “And, should my efforts pay off, who knows? Perhaps the two of you will reconcile. That ‘boar’ you loathe may be vanquished yet.”

“...Just don’t go overworking yourself trying to save him. You’re more valuable to us as Dedue than as Dimitri’s conscience.”

Dedue smiles.

Felix lets his head sink beneath the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ferdinand von DIE-er
> 
> this chapter ended up twice as long as expected, which is why it took so long to get it out! I don't know how this happened! I can't guarantee if it will or won't happen again! every chapter is an adventure!
> 
> wyvern rider dedue may not be his canon class but it's canon in my heart


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix prepares for Gronder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! been a while since I updated this! I got very stuck on this chapter, and holidays happened, but what matters the most is we got here in the end.
> 
> warnings this chapter for drinking, /even more/ shitty opinions about Dimitri's mental state from Felix, and some terrible horny jokes from Sylvain.

So allegedly, the emperor herself is among those gathering against Kingdom forces. This sets the boar on edge, as any mention of her does, and that goes on to make everyone else’s lives that much harder. The tension is only worsened by divided opinions of what to do after combating the Empire. Move on to take Enbarr? Double back and fight for Fhirdiad? No one can decide, and it leads to more heated arguments than Felix cares to deal with.

The plan is, initially, to write to House Riegan again. Felix feels they may be relying on Claude’s influence a little too much. They’ve hardly treated Lorenz with the respect a man of his status would crave, and what Felix recalls of their relationship is… friendly rivalry, he’ll call it. If Claude knew that Gloucester’s son was bound and bloody in the dungeons, would he still extend help?

...Probably, actually. He’s got a decent enough head on him not to put one man above the safety of hundreds. His concern is, probably, unfounded. A knee-jerk reaction that comes from wanting to contest Rodrigue’s every decision. Or maybe it’s not unfounded. Maybe he’s right.

He’s definitely right when he brings up the extremely reasonable question of if they seriously stand a chance against Edelgard. He’s still right when, unsatisfied with the boar prince’s non-committal answer, he draws attention to how if all this fails then they’ll have died for him. Pretty pointlessly, at that! Yet Rodrigue still shushes him. The old man has the nerve to insinuate that Felix is the one not focusing on the battle! He grits his teeth, hands balled into fists at his sides as Dimitri goes on to announce they all have to ‘make their peace.’ No. _ No _. That’s unacceptable. They’re not all dying for a man who fights for nothing but revenge. That’s ludicrous.

Prep time passes at an agonising pace.

In the few weeks they have, Felix goes to and fro between Myrddin and Garreg Mach numerous times. His father keeps asking him to lead troops out, or lead supply runs, or lead general patrols. It’s a lot, especially when he hates being placed in charge of a battalion. Rodrigue has to know this, which is why Felix can only conclude he must be giving these orders purposefully, for the sake of riling him up. Why else would he bother?

He wants Felix to be unhappy, and he wants Felix to complain, and he wants those complaints to go ignored in such a way that they make Felix seem childish and incapable. That’s the only reason he can see for doing this to him. What an asshole.

Anger at his father aside, he has to do what he can for the cause. He leads to the best of his ability. He’s blunt, and he’s rude, and his tactics when there’s danger make his subordinates stare with shock and horror. He’s not a conventional leader. His reckless plans have a way of working out well, however, and Felix proves himself capable in spite of his methods. Three weeks in and they trust him, and Rodrigue proudly exclaims that he knew he’d be great. Yeah, right. There’s no way he did this for any reason other than to see him squirm. Now he’s trying to save face because things didn’t go how he expected. He can’t convince Felix otherwise.

Myrddin’s his destination yet again, summoned there days before they set off on their march to Gronder, and he arrives to grim expressions all around. The messenger sent to Riegan territory is dead, he’s told. Brutally tortured, then tossed in a ditch like waste. The idea that this was Claude’s doing is absurd, and Byleth is arguing as much when he arrives. Gilbert won’t hear it. Rodrigue won’t either, not surprising Felix at all. Everything he’s done, all the times he’s gotten on Felix’s case about how they need to secure Claude as an ally, and now he’s this quick to deem him guilty of something that he wouldn’t do? How foolish can a man be?

_ Not taking chances _ is their excuse for not trying to follow up on this. They‘re close enough to where the Alliance army camps from here, sources say they’re no further away than the edges of Ordelia. Risky to stop there, practically suicidal if one doesn’t have something of a plan in mind. Claude _ always _ has a plan, is the thing. He wouldn’t stop so close to the Kingdom army if he didn’t intend to ally with them. Felix makes this argument, bewildered at the incompetence of the older men.

It means nothing coming from him. Nor does it mean anything coming from Byleth. Nor both of them. The boar’s on the path of ‘no allies is how we proceed,’ and neither old man has enough spine to stop him, only the sinew to steer him to their own goals. Restore Faerghus. Find Rhea. Be the next messiah king, or some equally-unlikely bullshit. It’s a farce, the lot of it.

Being more willing to listen to a deranged beast than his own son, Rodrigue has left this conversation having hurt Felix once again. As ever, it’s like he doesn’t notice.

“You’re not usually one to trust like that,” starts Sylvain out of nowhere on their way back to the monastery. Though Rodrigue disapproves, Felix knows there’s more to be done organising the troops at Garreg Mach than those at Myrddin, more plans to relay and more supplies to stock up on and all that. “Something going on there, huh? Should I be getting ready to call you Duke Fraldarius-Riegan sometime soon?”

If he weren’t sat on the back of his horse and in a position where he kind of needs Sylvain to keep working, Felix would gladly see him thrown down into the dirt for that one. The compromise is a hard thump to the back of his head.

“Don’t be an idiot. You know as well as I do that senseless murder isn’t Claude’s agenda. The fact that they won’t accept that-”

“No? I don’t know anything.”

Damned interrupting Gautier.

“I barely spoke to Claude back in school. He was a charmer, too. Anyone would fall for that smile. I didn’t need that kind of competition.”

Felix frowns, not that Sylvain can see it.

“No? He wasn’t like that. At all. The skirt-chasing was _ your _ trick. And Gloucester’s. Not his. I don’t know where you’d get an idea like that.”

A snort from Sylvain, before he launches into an annoying ‘apology’ that Felix _ knows _ is laced with mockery. “Alright, alright,” he starts, loosing one hand from his steed’s reins to wave it around. “No need to get all defensive of him. I’m so sowwy if I huwt your feewings by bein’ mean about Cwaude, Fewix.”

Staying silent, Felix weighs the pros and cons of beating Sylvain to death for his crimes. After a long and hard thought session that takes up most of the journey, he comes to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be beneficial. Today.

And so, for now, Sylvain survives.

They part ways at the gates of Garreg Mach. Sylvain takes Pontoise off to the stables, and Felix goes for the dining hall. Scary in her timing, Annette’s sat at an otherwise-empty table, eating her meal with a plate kept spare for him.

“How do you do that?” asks Felix, sliding into his seat.

Grinning, Annette taps her index finger against her nose. “Special secret.”

“...Why did you _ bother? _”

He’s already tucking into the meal when he thinks to speak up about it, though Felix doesn’t think that detracts from his intended point.

“Don’t mistake my words; I appreciate it. It just doesn’t seem worth it. Had I not shown up, and the food gone cold, it’d’ve been a waste, so-”

“What are you talking about? We’ve gotta keep our fighters fed! Can’t have you and yours collapsing on the battlefield ‘cause you’re famished.” She gestures with a forkful of mashed potatoes while she speaks. “There’ll be no ifs or buts about it, mister. You’ve _ got _ to be fighting fit. _ And _ , and, if you hadn’t turned up, which by the way, is totally impossible ‘cause I know what I’m doing when I get the sense to wait for you, I would’ve just taken it out to the guys hanging out in the greenhouse! They’re due for a snack break soon, and one Felix meal portion should split _ pre-tty _ nicely into three snack portions if I know my math. Which I do, by the way.”

“You said ‘by the way’ twice.”

“Yeah? Well… shut up! So there.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, then returns to the urgent business of her food. Felix isn’t going to argue with Annette. He wants to understand why she finds it a good use of her time to focus on him, but pushing won’t get anywhere. After all, she’s wary enough of him as is; no reason to make her feel attacked.

He’s comfortable to eat in relative silence. Annette hums, stopping whenever she catches herself, and Felix listens. No words to think about from her this time. It’s a shame. Something about her songs captivates him. He recalls catching her one time, a time where she didn’t call him out, and seeing Claude approach and interrupt. Rude and irritating. It threw Felix’s rhythm off for the rest of that day.

...Wait. Claude.

“Oh. _ By the way _, Annette.” 

Her wordless groan tells him his attempt at teasing isn’t appreciated. He shouldn’t try that again.

“You know - _ knew _ Claude von Riegan once, didn’t you? Back in school.”

She wrinkles her nose.

“Yeah, I guess? We didn’t talk _ much _, but he used to kinda get all philosophical about-” Annette cuts herself off, trying to disguise it by shoving another bite into her mouth. Curious. “Well, the specifics aren’t important. Why?”

“Your father and my father are over at Myrddin, convinced he executed our messenger to make a point about not being our ally.”

“What? They think Claude did something like that? That’s ridiculous!”

Finally! Finally someone gets what Felix has been saying!

“_ Thank you! _ Claude isn’t about to kill a man just to make a point. For all my old man’s talk of allyship, he’s got no qualms with painting the Alliance in the colours of the enemy.”

It’s infuriating. Having Annette understand why that wouldn’t be the case is validating beyond words, and Felix takes another triumphant bite of his food before continuing on.

“He spent so long hounding me to stay on Claude’s good side, to get us into a strong… uh, alliance with the Alliance, and for what? For one guy to turn up slaughtered, probably by the Empire, and to immediately assume the worst of the Alliance for that! I’m not one for blind trust, but surely, _ surely _-”

“Though I guess, maybe he could think Gloucester did it? We do kinda have Lorenz locked up down in the dungeons, don’t we…” Yep. There sure is that. “Still, Gloucester’s against Claude. If we found _ proof _ that he killed our guy, then that’d be pretty easy to turn into proof that we can still trust Claude.”

Unfortunate as it is, there’ll be no chance to find anything like that. Not in the scarce few days they have before they reach the battlefield. Felix is pretty sure of it, pretty sure they’ve no chance of getting that lucky.

Hell, would the boar even believe it? Or does all the angsting tripe blind him to the possibility that not everyone is against him? That wouldn’t surprise Felix. There are so many things he could say about it. Right now, even, he’s ready to go! Ready to air every last grievance with Dimitri and his skewed judgment! He could spend hours on it!

...Instead, he chooses to stew in his own annoyance, and finishes his meal in silence before leaving Annette, brushing off any questions she has about why he’s making such a grumpy face.

He’ll work this off with his blade.

* * *

Sylvain leaves him a note while he’s training.

_ Meet me in the stables tonight. _

_ I have a surprise for you and Ingrid. _

_ \- S _

If the ‘surprise’ ends up being something disgusting, Felix is going to bash Sylvain’s brains in before the enemy can lay a finger on him at Gronder. He’s not interested in playing wingman, or pulling some stupid prank, or sitting there and watching Sylvain blabber on about something while Ingrid argues with him. Felix isn’t in the mood for that. The time spent with friends could be spent training further. He could be getting stronger. Could be getting faster. Could be becoming a better protector for them.

Relaxing Sylvain’s way doesn’t seem wise right now.

He goes anyway, of course.

The stench of horses doesn’t quite manage to mask the far stronger stink of alcohol on Sylvain’s breath when he comes in for a hug that he doesn’t get. Ingrid sits slumped on the ground, arms folded and a scowl fixed on her face comparable to that of an overtired toddler.

“Where did you get this?”

Felix moves to grab the bottle, and Sylvain lifts it out of his range. There’s a pop of joints when Felix cracks his neck, ready to wrestle the booze from Sylvain if need be. Goddess above knows that he doesn’t need to be feeding his vices right before they go to battle. Another dodge annoys Felix, and, as he grumbles and growls about how stupid this is, Sylvain takes off running like he expects a giddy chase.

He doesn’t get it.

The imagined fun of it fades, and Sylvain stops hardly ten paces away. The bottle’s raised to his lips.

“Don’t.”

“It’s no biggie. I borrowed it from Professor Manuela’s room, that’s all!” When disapproval is the response he gets, Sylvain hurriedly clarifies, “I was there for completely innocent reasons, mind you! You should be proud, ‘cause I was doing a public service and making sure she got back there safe. I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

“Gentleman thief, maybe. Even that’s pushing it.”

Ingrid finally rises as she talks, moving to stand at Felix’s side. Two on one. Sylvain stands no chance. They _ will _ tackle him if they have to.

“You don’t have to glare like that, yeesh. I thought it might be nice, since we’ve got such a big battle on the horizon, to spend some time together. As pals. Get a touch tipsy, have a laugh, make a night of it. Could… you know, be the last we get together.”

“Syl_ vain _-”

“I’m being a realist here. It’s a dangerous thing, war! It’s not like we haven’t had any scares. So, _ just in case _, I wanna make sure we have a nice memory, one last hangout amidst all of this. I got it all worked out, too! If we have that night now and not while we’re on the march, there’s no chance of it affecting our fighting. Hypothetically, were I to get completely shitfaced here, and need a two-day recovery while we move out… I’d have that, and an extra day to boot! We’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“That’s ridiculous,” counters Ingrid.

“And disgustingly sentimental,” adds Felix.

Sylvain pouts at them, closing the divide in his defeat to hand over his prize. He’s gone from playful to pitiful in seconds.

“Fine, fine. I want a nice night, is all. Can we still have that?”

Ingrid is the one to take the bottle. Responsible and mature, it would make sense for her to dispose of it, or perhaps take it away to the pantry to add it to the rations. It always does for adding a kick to a meal of some kind or another.

Except no. Ingrid necks the damn thing. That’s not what Felix expected, and the way his mouth hangs agape is a dead giveaway of that. Sylvain’s shock is greater, though morphs into an awe-tinged grin as he watches.

In the back of his mind, Felix sees old memories of Ingrid boldly leading them on royal kitchen crusades play out. Ah yes, when it comes to food or drink, Miss Galatea won’t be passing over partaking. Even in these circumstances that isn’t changing. It’s kind of… good to see, in a weird, roundabout way.

He won’t admit that.

“Didn’t you _ just _ say this is ridiculous?”

“I’m feeling a little ridiculous tonight, too.”

Hearing that, Felix resigns himself to sticking around and babysitting. Two drunk idiots are more dangerous than one, and he won’t be responsible for whatever chaos they’d cause without adult supervision.

Ingrid adds a new factor to things, too. He’s seen Sylvain drunk - seen Sylvain drunk _ a lot _, far more than he wants to think about - and he knows how it looks. It’s a depressing sight for sure, but it’s predictable. First he gets giddy. Then he gets frisky, more-so than usual. Finally, he sinks into despair. It’s unpleasant, and yet it always goes the same way.

Ingrid, on the other hand...

Has he seen Ingrid drunk?

He’s seen her _ drink _. She stayed with him, they shared a glass or two, they lamented their positions. Nothing changed from what he recalls. No behaviour shift that Felix can think of. That makes her unpredictable here. Goddess only knows what Manuela’s keeping to herself, but it has to be strong. 

This is the only reason Felix stays. Really! It’s what he tells himself, and so it must be the case. He stays to keep an eye on them and nothing else.

“Did I ever tell you how good the short hair looks?”

An hour of shenanigans have gone by when Sylvain reaches out to run his fingers under the split tips of Ingrid’s hair, and it’s entirely expected when she slaps him away. That doesn’t stop him pouting about it.

“It was a compliment, gosh.”

“Don’t do that.”

She’s glaring. Sheepishly, Sylvain withdraws the rest of the way. His apology is mumbled low enough that the individual words can barely be distinguished from where Felix is. He fixes his eyes on his feet.

Sulking about it’s not going to help. In fact, it’s going to do the opposite. It’s going to get Ingrid taking another swig from the bottle, before growling low and starting up on a rant. Sylvain looks mortified, though he deserves this. Felix has to admit that he’s entertained.

“I’m so tired of _ men _.”

Sylvain reels at that, giving a reaction that would be more suited to her punching him in the stomach. Such a drama queen, he is.

“Men that think a compliment’s a free pass to lay hands on you. Not even you, Sylvain! You’re… you’re Sylvain,” Her face scrunched up, she makes a gesture with her hand in Sylvain’s direction. The rosy red blooming across her nose and cheeks, put together with the gurning she’s doing with her face as she tries to emote, make her a hell of a sight.

On she goes with her raving and ranting, face reddening further the more worked up she gets, and at the peak of her outburst she throws the bottle down. Her anger fizzles out into a blank stare when it shatters on the floor. Green glass glints amidst the hay that’s haphazardly strewn about the stable ground, and the sight of it puts a stop to her otherwise-unstoppable rage. Realising what she’s done, she crouches to start clearing up the pieces. Can’t leave that lying around.

Both men are reeling from her frustrated outburst. Felix is surprised, confused as to why this is coming out now. Ingrid’s been the most focused of them on the war effort; she’s a royalist, loyalist, every-fucking-thing-ist, and she believes in Dimitri. When her focus lays there, why is she exploding about men again? Dread wells up in the pit of Felix’s stomach. He tries hard to swallow it down. 

She’d talk if something had gone on. She would.

“Did somethin’ happen?”

Tipsy, mush-brained Sylvain is still conscious of friends’ feelings enough to show the concern a friend should, slurring out thoughts that match Felix’s.

Felix keeps quiet. He should step in, possibly. It’s just so awkward to do so. He hates difficult conversations. The war necessitates so damn many of them, too. It’s more than a little unfair, but he’s gonna let Sylvain take this one.

Ingrid chews on her lip, brow furrowed and jaw tense. Her hands are full of glass. This isn’t the Ingrid that cried in the middle of the night about how she’s tired of it all. This woman is irritated, and a little intoxicated.

“Ing-”

“_ Nothing _ happened, stop making a thing out of it. What, am I not allowed to bitch anymore? Too much for you to handle, Sylvain? You sure don’t seem to care when Felix does it! Ugh.” That wasn’t necessary. If she realises that, she doesn’t care. “You know what? Let’s swim. I feel like swimming.”

Dropping the glass into the pocket of her coat, she walks away.

Oh no.

She’s not seriously doing this, is she?

Sylvain goes to follow, and that means Felix has to as well. Ingrid sheds her outer coat, dropping it carelessly on the path as she walks. Since no one else looks like they care to, Felix picks it up as he passes by. Ingrid keeps walking. Next go her boots, then her layers. Ever the fool, Sylvain copies.

By the time he’s at the side of the pond, Felix has gathered an armful of discarded clothes, and is watching his idiot friends splash around in the water.

“You two, this is a terrible-”

Sylvain grabs him by the ankle, and then a fully-clothed Felix is in the water with his two stupid, half-naked, drunk friends. They holler at him as he sputters and gasps.

“Syl_ vain! _”

Ingrid laughs, low and raw and matching Sylvain’s giddiness. Felix tries to right himself with mixed results, and she wades to him. Initially he expects her help.

Foolish.

In the next moment she’s wrapping an arm around Felix’s neck and wrestling him down beneath the surface. More sputtering ensues when he kicks her off, and any mature and joyless mask he’d hoped to keep up falls apart as he childishly leaps at her, intending to pin her to the bottom of the pond in vengeance.

He never gets the chance. 

Sylvain slams into him from the side, half-winding him. Felix doesn’t sling insults now, not this time - instead he grabs for his friend’s pretty, freckled throat and shoves him down as hard as he can. Sylvain looses a shriek, and all three of them are laughing at that.

Fifteen minutes later they all crawl out of the pond. Felix is shivering. Ingrid and Sylvain huddle up to him, and though he freezes up initially, it doesn’t take too long to relax. His wet, stinky friends are a comforting presence. If it didn’t run the risk of hypothermia, Felix would be content to sit here and drift to sleep in their damp embrace.

“Father found yet another suitor.” Ingrid blurts out, breaking the short stint of silence. “He insists that this is a man of ‘fine moral character,’ and that he’ll make a supportive and sweet husband for me if I should return home.”

“If he’s so great, why doesn’t your dad just marry him?” is Sylvain’s curt response, his lip curling in disgust. Felix leans his head into the crook of his neck the second it becomes available, breathing a contented sigh when Sylvain shifts to accommodate him better. “Like, let you pick your own damn husband! You’re not gonna pick badly.”

Ingrid stays quiet.

“Or you needn’t pick at all,” mumbles Felix.

Sylvain’s skin is clammy and cold against his cheek, and in a way that he feels he shouldn’t be allowed to, he likes it. Comfortable. What he can see of Ingrid’s expression out of the corner of his eye, however, is dark. Uncomfortable. So he continues.

“It’s not like you’d let Galatea shrivel up and die simply because you don’t have a man at your side keeping your pockets full. You’re stubborn as all hell. The rest of Faerghus will be ash before any sliver of Galatea territory crumbles with you at the helm.”

The answer he’s given is satisfying, he thinks. He closes his eyes. Ingrid’s amused hum still reaches him, and it can’t be argued that he's not paying attention when satisfaction swiftly turns to confusion.

  
“What?”

“You’ve come a long way these last few years, Felix.”

She claps a hand down on his back with force enough to make it sting. The impact comes with a wet _ shwack _ noise, a nice little reminder that he’s soaked to the bone.

“I’m truly glad to know ‘go find a husband’ isn’t your only advice anymore.”

Hearing his old words dredged up again makes Felix cringe. Sylvain bellows with laughter that reverberates through Felix’s bones. He was a real brat back then, and all three of them know it.

“...Shut up.”

Still kind of is.

“Some husband, no husband, whatever! You’ll be fine whichever way. Though if you do happen to need a handsome, rich, popular, handsome, strong, handsome trophy husband…”

“What is it with you?” Ingrid shoves Sylvain, and leaning all his weight on him means Felix goes with him, landing atop him. Sylvain’s head is dangerously close to dipping back into the water. He laughs anyway. “Stop trying to marry people. Me, specifically. Not interested.”

A whine from Sylvain buzzes against Felix’s face.

“Fine then. Felix it is.”

Oh, not this again.

“I think you’re forgetting that I also get a say in this, Sylvain.”

“Well yeah, duh. But it’s me! It’s _ us! _ We’re Felix and Sylvain! We’re… We’re Fevain! You’d totally marry me.”

His claims go ignored. Getting off of him and sitting up, Felix catches Sylvain’s face fall with a faux-wounded expression. Serves him right for saying those sorts of things.

“...So, Ingrid. If not this dolt, is there anyone you’d consider?” 

That changes things quickly enough. Always prepared to be a pain in Ingrid’s ass, Sylvain pounces on the topic and promptly forgets the awkwardness that came before. “Yeah Ingrid, if I don’t meet your standards, who does? Or are you gunnin’ for Felix too?”

There’s a shared moment of mutual disgust between Felix and her when the idiot says that.

“Absolutely not,” she spits. “you’re my friends, and that’s enough. I have nothing beyond that for you.”

There’s a calm moment, and maybe the topic’s been dropped? Except no. No, neither of them are that lucky. The silence comes from Sylvain _ thinking _. Nothing good ever happens when Sylvain is thinking.

“What about His Highness?”

There’s disbelief, amusement on her face at that one.

“You’re joking. You heard what I just said, yes? His Highness is a friend, like you, and - and he’s above my station! I couldn’t possibly-”

“Ashe? Linhardt? Dedue? Seteth?”

“No, no, no, and ew. He has to be old enough to be my father, _ at least! _”

“And mine, but _ I _ still-”

Felix elbows Sylvain in the gut, putting an end to his awful oversharing before it really gets going. Sylvain grunts, groans, moans, and makes all sorts of other pained noises. He’s trying to milk this for all he can, yet his friends aren’t willing to give him a drop of sympathy.

“That hurt.”

“Please, use your brain for once.”

He does not.  
Instead, an incessant back-and-forth begins between the pair of them, reaching its end only when Sylvain seems to run out of men’s names. The lull is deceptively final, and even Felix doesn’t expect Sylvain to throw a final round down.

“Dorothea?”

Ingrid is taken aback when her name is spoken. Sylvain’s lips curl into a wry, devilish grin.

“Or maybe Mercedes? Or Annette? Manuela? Leonie? Or, uh… what’s her face, the Goneril girl with the big muscles who used to skip out on training all the time back in school?”

Ingrid’s gone such a striking shade of red that Felix worries she’s caught some ailment from the pond water. Maybe it’s not funny to tease her about this.

“Syl_ vain _-“

The bastard grins at her, answering with a drawn out, “Yeeeeeees?”

She never has to come up with an answer. How merciful the world can be, if only on the rarest of occasions. There’s a clanking of armoured boots that makes them all go silent, and then _ he _ appears.

“What are you doing out at this hour?”

Dimitri is stationed here, not Myrddin? The night before they set out on the march? That’s quite strange. Though thinking back, Felix can recall a minor fuss kicking up a short few hours after his own return, and yeah, Dimitri coming back would cause that. It makes sense.

Less sense, he also notes, is that they’re out here behaving like this tonight of all nights. Sylvain’s justifications from earlier may have coaxed he and Ingrid into partaking, but that doesn’t make them good reasons to be here. And the war-ready monster living in Dimitri won’t care for their frivolous reasons.

“Your Highness!” yelps Ingrid, shooting to her feet and dragging the boys up with her. The trio stand, sopping wet and stinking of pond water and whatever drink that the tipsy two have been nipping at all night. “I - I - I apologise for this - for um, our - for our unpresentable selves!”

Her head dips, and a wet clump of hair slaps against her forehead. Sylvain is trying not to smile. Felix rolls his eyes.

“We are to depart in but a handful of hours, and the lot of you are here galavanting around, carefree?”

Circles are paced around the trio, and Felix is uncomfortably aware of how Dimitri sizes them up. Dedue’s words come back to him. _ Vanquish the boar _? He can’t think it possible, when even as he shows human sensibilities Dimitri moves like a beast.

“Give me good reason not to have the three of you disciplined for this. If you’re making yourselves liabilities when we’re about to take to battle-”

“Oh, close that filthy trap of yours.”

Daring to accuse him (or _ them _, because it definitely wasn’t aimed at just Felix) of being a liability is a step too far. Especially for one who has behaved as recklessly and unpredictably as Dimitri has these last few months.

Jerking out of Ingrid’s grip, Felix glares. Dimitri glares back. Neither man speaks, there’s only the sound of grinding teeth. The tiny, overgrown canines that poke like tusks over the edges of Dimitri’s lower lip slide along, their points drawing blood from the top lip as he gnashes. He’d always had a problem with it as a child, and there are countless occasions Felix can recall of the younger Dimitri waking with a bloody lip, bursting into tears… and having Felix himself in tears too alongside him. Crying for no reason other than that his most precious friend was crying first. Embarrassing to think about. Infuriating to remember.

Finally, he breaks the silence again.

“You think I have any intention of listening to _ you _ prattle on about _ us _ being the danger? You must jest, boar prince. Is it the intoxication of these idiots that makes you worry? Makes you think them unpredictable? Makes you think their perception to be warped? It wasn’t long ago that your own was warped, correct?”

He wants to stop.

Every speck of empathy that stirs in him screams that he should stop. He doesn’t want to carry on like this.

Still, Dimitri’s expression hasn’t shifted. He still grits his teeth, two tiny trickles of blood running in ribbons over his chin. It makes Felix angry. He _ wants _ a reaction, so there’s no choice here. He carries on.

“You looked at my face and you cried for my brother, you cried out for his forgiveness. The forgiveness of a dead man! It was pathetic. Doubly so, because if you knew my brother you would know he’d never hold you responsible for what happened to him-!”

His eyes burn, and his nose itches. His voice cracks. In a wet, bitter warble, Felix lets the last of his quickly-waning venom spill from his lips.

“The final joys of soldiers set for slaughter don’t measure even a tenth of the danger that the monster inside of you does, boar. You are dangerous. You are an ugly, _ evil _ thing. In twelve hours, before we even reach Gronder, these two will have sobered up. And you will still be a beast thirsting for one woman’s blood, and you will carry on valuing her death above all of our lives.”

Everyone is quiet after that. A line’s been crossed, and Felix isn’t sure where it was at. What he is sure of is that he feels dirty after saying all of that.

When Dimitri leaves, not speaking another word, Ingrid turns to Felix. There’s a _ look _ on her face. He’s about to get yelled at, and he knows it, and he knows he deserves it.

“Felix, that was out of line!”

“It’s true,” he bites back out of habit, knowing himself to be wrong. “The two of you will be fine for battle. We’re days away from Gronder. That thing, though…”

“That ‘thing’ is His Highness, our friend! Our _ duty! _ If you tried at all to understand him, you’d know - that it’s still him! He’s…”

She suppresses a belch, and sniffles. The light of the moon glints off her face, and Felix notices she’s started streaming tears and snot. By the goddess, she’s getting herself much too worked up over this.

“He needs our support, and - and we _ are _ the ones in the wrong here! Being out here _ is _ stupid! We know it won’t affect things - great, that doesn’t change how reckless and irresponsible we’re being!”

Sylvain puts an arm around her, and gives Felix a look of his own. Ugh, isn’t this just wonderful?

“She’s right, Felix. I’m happy y’came out with me, don’t get it twisted! Both of you! S’been real fun! Like, that doesn’t change that His Highness... isn’t wrong. He might’ve been a little harsh there, yeah, but he can be pissed if he wants. An’ you really had no right to go calling him all sorts again. That was pretty gross, man.”

“...This was _ your _ idea, Sylvain. The reason. We got in trouble. Is because you decided to be an irresponsible idiot _ again _.”

They’re ganging up on him. Felix knows he was out of line, knows their light scoldings are deserved. He’s no fool. Even with that knowledge, like a cornered animal, he turns on them. He can’t stop himself. They pick away at him for reasons that are more than justified, and he can’t help but to lash out.

“You two sherk your responsibilities, come running off out here, make utter disgraces of yourselves, and expect me to sit by and take a scolding for trying to be the adult of the group? You’re both _ disgusting! _ I can’t stand you!”

Wringing water from his bangs, Felix turns to leave. Ingrid persists and shouts something after him, except he’s not listening anymore. He’s going to go and clean himself up, and then he’s going to bed. Fuck those two. They can drown for all he cares.

…

…

...They’d better not, though.

* * *

Felix is up at dawn, giving his supplies a once-over before heading out to meet with his battalion. While he passes Ingrid along the way (now prim and all put together, as one would expect from her knightly self), she says nothing to him. She ignores his greeting and doesn’t look his way.

Fine. Fine!

Fine.

When the army moves out, Felix is held near the front. Just behind Rodrigue and Gilbert, who in turn are just behind Dimitri, Seteth, and Byleth. He walks alongside Annette, who is far too cheerful for the situation at hand. She hums to herself, is constantly turning around to chat with her own soldiers, and she smiles. She _ smiles _ while walking to a battlefield. Skips along merrily some of the time, even! It’s perplexing.

“Are you actually happy?” gets blurted out not entirely of his own volition. A curious thought that’s become a curious question all on its own.

“Mm, what?”

“You’re all chipper. We could die. Today, tomorrow, before we even reach the battlefield. Tonight’s camp could be ambushed. And here you are, being so… Annette.”

She’ll know what he means with that, right?

“I don’t understand it.”

Annette keeps on smiling.

“Oh, I’m terrified! This is, like, the most scared I’ve been in my life. Even more than when Edelgard first attacked the monastery. Even more than when Father left.”

Gilbert turns his head to look at her, just a bit, when she says that. Annette continues on as though she hasn’t noticed.

“Nothing about this is anything short of my worst nightmare. That’s just how it goes, though! This is so, so, _ sooo _ scary, but if we don’t fight, nothing’s gonna change. I don’t know what’ll happen when we get to Gronder, but we’ve got to keep our hopes up, and we’re not gonna be able to do that if every last one of us is looking all dour and sour and stuff. Does that make sense?”

“...Not really.”

He shrugs, unsure how else to respond. Annette’s smile fades briefly, but then she’s pushing for it to return. 

Felix thinks.

Seeing her smile, even despite the circumstances, is preferable. He knows it’s not real. He knows she’s scared. That smile, though, puts him more at ease. That’s very selfish, but he carries on preferring to see it. He wants to see her smile, and maybe that means her idea does make sense after all.

“...Actually, no. I think I get it. A little.”

It’s not easy to think about, and his understanding is more of a feeling. Annette smiles, bright and beautiful and incredibly fake, and Felix feels better. She gets a small slip of a smile in return. He hopes that it helps her the way hers helps him.

The march days are uneventful, for the most part.

They move, they scout, they rest. They dig out a pit for their fire, keeping it well-aired and hidden. Tiny tents are pitched, scattered through the nearby brush and hidden. Close enough to hear one another while still divided enough to keep from clustering. The risk of an ambush is the last thing they need to open up.

It’s to be expected that Felix shares his tent with Sylvain. They’ve barely spoken throughout this march, but of course they group up. Their battalions even mix well! Both are stocked with soldiers who share bonds like their own. Friendships, rivalries, brothers-in-arms, and deeper bonds still. So it makes sense.

Both of them are awkwardly silent as they try to rest. Something about the air lets Felix know that Sylvain is wide awake, just as he is. They face away from one another and lay on opposite sides of their tiny shelter, but he can still tell, somehow.

“Go to sleep,” he says, rolling so that he faces his old friend. “The last thing we need is you nodding off on your horse and getting thrown across the field. Again.”

Sylvain snorts.

“That was one time! And I was twelve. Kids are stupid.”

“_ You’re _ stupid. Age has never had anything to do with it.”

There’s shuffling, and Felix sees the dark silhouette of his friend rise up. Sylvain sits there, presumably looking his way.

“...By the way. Have you spoken to His Highness since-?”

“Don’t start this.”

He’s not in the mood. Whether Sylvain intends to bug him into apologising, or guilt him into considering it on his own, or whatever else he might have cooked up in his wicked little brain, Felix is uninterested.

“I don’t regret it. ...It’s not - I was right.”

He wasn’t right.

“Felix…”

There’s that disappointed, guilting tone. He prepares to turn away from Sylvain again, except Sylvain shuffles closer. The tent was hardly spacious to begin with. Closing the gap between them means Felix has no chance of escaping whatever he’s in for here.

“I’m worried about’cha. I know things are… uh, complicated. I know you’ve had it rough with the whole… _ everything _ to do with Dimitri.” He pauses, gulps, clears his throat. Apparently it’s as embarrassing to say these things as it is to hear them. “That has to be rough. Especially, like, with… the stuff. But - that was a hell of an outburst, and I don’t want to go into battle with us like, not talkin’ over it. Ingrid won’t say a word, you know how she gets. I guarantee you, though, she’s worryin’ too. And I asked Dedue about His Highness ‘cause he won’t talk to me, and he’s pretty broken up about it in his own way. I know you’ll find that hard to believe, but he is. So… let’s talk about it? Yeah, it sucks to do that, but it’ll be out then.”

He stands by what he’s said many times in the past: Sylvain is stupid as hell. He wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. This is his best friend, and he’s an idiot.

...Apart from when he’s not.

He’s pretty smart when he applies himself, or when he drops the playboy facade and gets serious. This is something Felix thinks about a lot, annoyingly. Thinks about it so much and so hard that he realises he’s zoned out and missed half of what Sylvain is trying to tell him.

“...I don’t know what you expect of me. The boar’s a menace. We’re all going to be killed enacting his revenge. Revenge that doesn’t even make sense. You will follow him, because you have a death wish. Ingrid will follow him, because she’s absurdly loyal to the ideal of a Faerghus that will never exist. I will follow him… because… what else is there? Dying in this war is the closest thing to a ‘destiny’ I have.”

Destiny. That word is so stupid. He swallows, trying to loosen the growing lump in his throat before it chokes him. Though he hates it, that really is all there is for Felix. Death, fighting for a cause he isn’t even a believer in.

Faerghus is a blight on the world. Like the church. Like the Empire. Like the Alliance. Fódlan as a whole. Its ideals aren’t worth defending. At the same time, it’s all that he has. What else is there but Faerghus’s rigid societal views, dedication to the church, philosophy of ‘die for your king, ask no questions?’ This is the only life for Felix. A life that lets him swing a blade or a fist into any he is pointed at.

Faerghus disgusts Felix, and Felix _ is _ Faerghus.

“What if we don’t die?”

Felix blinks. Once. Twice. Trying to comprehend what Sylvain means with that. Sylvain coughs, and sheepishly carries on.

“I’ll admit it. There’s not a whole lot for me to live for. Uh… and we have our promise and all, yeah… but. I’ll be honest. I don’t want you dying so soon, Felix. If that means I’ve gotta live longer too to make sure you stay on your feet, then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be here, and I’ll make sure that you aren’t gonna go dying on me. So, while you’re livin’ so long and getting all old, you’re going to have to learn to talk about things and work through ‘em. Starting now. Got it?”

“That’s stupid,” is his immediate response. No, that’s not quite it. “...It’s _ hard _.”

“A lot of things are hard.”

“You don’t get it, Sylvain. When I look at the - when I look at _ Dimitri _ , I can’t… it’s like I’m looking at a sick mockery of him. Like some evil little creature has crawled up into his bones and is wearing him like a suit of armour. I look at him and… I get so angry. So _ fucking _ angry! Because I… I… dammit, I don’t know.”

A hand on his shoulder makes him flinch. It’s only Sylvain, yeah, but the dark makes Felix jumpy.

“That was good, man. If you can put all that shit to words, that’s great! Even if you can’t justify it, though, we gotta get you through it. ‘Cause he’s our prince. Our commander. We can’t go mouthing off at him every time he opens his trap. Gotta be civil.”

It’s not like Felix doesn’t know that. He hates the feeling of condescension that’s radiating off off Sylvain’s dark form. He’s not a kid. He’s not an idiot. He knows he has to try.

He knows!

Really!

“...It’s hard,” he repeats, softer now. He hates showing weakness, too. This whole conversation is a worst case scenario for him. “It’s really hard.”

Sylvain shuffles around in the dark again, and the hand clapped on Felix’s shoulder is replaced by a pair of them snaking around his torso. He didn’t ask to be held, and it’s happening anyway. Annoying.

He’s not going to say anything, mind you.

“A lot of things are hard,” says Sylvain again, matching Felix’s newfound softness. “Everything nowadays, really. We still have to try. Please.”

They lay in the dark and the silence, neither breaking it while Felix thinks. Okay. Alright. He has to try. More than he already tries. He has to try the most that he can.

“Fine.”

“Great!” Sylvain’s hug tightens, and Felix finds comfort in the compression. It’s not to last. “And uh, y’know, when I say everything’s hard… that’s includin’ me. Like, right now. I guess talking about our feelings does it for me.”

Felix’s eyes, previously drifting shut, shoot open, and he rockets across the tent away from a guffawing Sylvain. When his back hits the flimsy wall and he almost collapses the whole thing, he curses blue murder under his breath. Sylvain keeps laughing.

“_Disgusting. _”

“It was a joke!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lack of Linny..... the lack of Claude.... this chapter is being carried by Annette's appearance and nothing else.
> 
> also shoutout to my poor beta who had me drop this on them unprompted in discord this morning, it's so long but they came through anyway and I love them


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix plays the shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no update!! writing hard, u know how it is
> 
> cw for battle violence, animal death, people death, named character death/AM route Gronder spoilers, and some really grizzly gore that shows up shortly after Edelgard appears.

The world around Felix is engulfed in inescapable flame. There’s no breath in his lungs, anything good and clean replaced with dust and ashes that choke him. A number of soldiers have already fallen before the battle is even truly underway, the number rising steeper with every second that ticks by. Something about the field today is so wrong, beyond the clashing weapons and spilling blood. It rattles Felix, hitting him repeatedly with waves of nausea he can’t source, until he and his split off from Byleth and theirs. One maneuver, then another is ruined, and as plans go to pot everyone is forced to think on their feet. Mercedes is dragging Flayn by the wrist to get her out of enemy reach, while Flayn fights against her pull, insisting she knows what to do. The plan to send them off down an unseen path has fallen apart, as enemy cavalry charge through the bush, cutting and burning it away to clear their paths. They’ve lost Ashe and Dorothea somewhere along the way.

Felix moves in as the ladies pull back, and down goes the first horseman when his steed is struck. As the foe scrambles for his weapon, Felix brings a heel down on his neck and stamps the life out of him. These dancing shoes, the same ones that he was gifted all those years ago, are absurdly sturdy.

The next two Imperials run at him, and a combined blast of spells from Mercie and Flayn take them out while Felix ducks and rolls, springing up to fell the last of their ambushers.

They creep on further into the brush, with a scattering of their battalions following close in step.

Felix sees his target. With his back to the approaching band of them, there’s Hubert. Exactly where one expects to see a mage with any amount of influence. He’s far from the front lines, stood back flinging spells and giving orders.  _ Cowardly _ , thinks Felix. Cowardly, but smart. Hubert knows what he’s doing.

Knows well enough to expect an attempted ambush.

Felix’s swift feet and stealthy gait are, apparently, meaningless in the wake of Hubert’s sense for his surroundings. He spins on his feet and strikes out with a spell Felix is unfamiliar with. Whatever dark magic touches him forces him to stop. He freezes in place and chokes, his muscles all refusing to answer to him. Hubert laughs. The beginnings of another spell stir to life in his raised hands, and Felix is internally cursing the dastard out for this. He can’t move. Can’t defend. Can’t escape.

Then Hubert stops. His smile dies away, and he flings the spell past Felix. A grunt from behind him tells him it made contact, but did little to hurt Flayn. Flayn, who charges forward seconds later, vaults over Felix while taking care to press her healing hand into his skin and free him from the hex holding him, and fires off an Excalibur that Hubert tries and fails to block. She advances still, and as feeling returns to Felix’s body, he follows.

“Two on one? How unfair,” quips Hubert. “No matter.”

A silent command from him, and the demonic beast that’s been swatting at the Alliance army snaps its head in their direction. Shit.

“Good luck.”

And, like that, he’s gone in a flash of violet light. He leaves Felix, Flayn, and the still-approaching Mercedes to lead their soldiers against the monster that now hurtles their way. A hand on Felix’s shoulder, a hand on Flayn’s, and Mercedes heals them both up. New bruises and blood blisters from where that evil spell struck sink back into Felix’s skin. There’s no pain as there often is with healing, only the mild discomfort that has long since proven itself unavoidable. Mercie knows what she’s doing.

Good thing, too, since Felix gets the feeling he’ll be needing more of her service when the monster Hubert called reaches them. It charges with frightening purpose and skids to a halt mere feet in front of them. Its enormous claws look ready to tear into them, flexing against the soil. Disgusting thing.

It screams, and a rain of debris falls from its… mouth? Hard to tell. A mass of writhing tentacles that emerge from beneath a mask, all shuddering and twitching in unison as the godless thing shrieks and throws its head skyward. Its battle cry drops awful things from under the mask. The three of them flinch as they’re showered with broken weapons, dented armour, the steadily-dissolving remains of other fighters. Felix tries to pay no mind when the head of a woman he’s sure he recognises lands in the muddied earth of Gronder with a heavy  _ splat. _

The mouth isn’t what he needs to worry about, anyway. Not when the monster uses his momentary distraction to snatch him up in its filthy, broken claws and  _ squeeze _ , sending a familiar agony shooting through his body for the first time in a long time. He grits his teeth and bears it, waiting for his opportunity to strike back. It’s all he can do.   
It won’t be with his blade, though, not when the pain of the vice grip he’s held in weakens his muscles to where he can’t keep his sword in hand. It falls the long drop to the ground below, and with the same curses he’d conjured for Hubert running through his mind, Felix resigns himself to magic as his last option. 

Deep breaths. Eyes screwed shut. Both are difficult, when his ribs creak and snap in protest to the pressure and his eyes bulge defiantly against their lids, but Felix is no quitter. With his own scream of rage he lets a Thoron travel from his spasming fingertips into the monster’s shadowy flesh, and the ugly thing cries out. Serves it right.

The new problem this creates is that Felix is dropped from its grip, only successfully snagged again by his ankle. Monsters aren’t gentle, and to concentrate its brutish grip on just those delicate bones sends waves of fire shooting up his poor leg. He hangs upside-down, its own problem in that he’s now unable to reach the beast’s skin with his sparking hand. All of this is going humiliatingly poorly, getting worse still as the damn thing flails its limbs. Felix is thrashed around until the world continues to spin even when his captor goes still, hunched over and tense.

He realises then that it’s gone still because it’s defending as best as it can from a hail of arrows. Their source is a mystery to Felix, but he can at least appreciate that they manage to avoid piercing him. 

Flayn, reduced to a tiny blur of green at the corner of Felix’s doubling vision by now, moves below him. Amidst the beast’s frenzied attacks she somehow finds her way to its underside, to Felix’s lost blade. He can’t see her well, sometimes at all from where he hangs, but there’s a spill of black and purple entrails accompanied by a shriek, and then the world tumbling over itself as the dark beast drops Felix and falls forward, dead.

Bracing for impact won’t lessen the inevitable pain of it, so, with nothing else to go with, Felix tries to steer his fall toward the pile of soft, slimy innards that little Flayn now crawls her way out of.

He does not hit the ground. A flash of gold and ivory fills his still-swimming vision. Rather than the hellish heat of monster guts swallowing him, Felix finds himself in the comfortably warm arms of a man on wyvernback.

“This sure isn’t how I expected our next face-to-face meeting to go,” starts his still-blurred saviour, who then tuts as he takes in Felix’s sorry state. “Look at you, man. Glad I made it in time. Would’ve been a real shame for me to arrive only to watch you drop dead in a pile of beastie bits.”

It isn’t until they touch down on the ground that the world comes back into focus for Felix. The voice had been a giveaway, so the shock of seeing him is lessened, but… damn.

Claude looks  _ good _ .

Years of wartime, of strife and harsh conditions that have been so cruel to every last soul caught up in it, seem to have been shrugged right off by the well-built Adonis that holds Felix in his arms. His chinstrap beard accentuates the sharp angle of his jaw, and the expanse of his broad shoulders has to easily make him double the width of Felix himself. Light leather armour dips impractically low on his chest, so much so that if he were in a better state of mind Felix knows he’d be criticising the danger of it. For now he can only muster enough coherent thought to register the hints of long, wine-red scars among the veritable forest of hair that the low cut shows off.

Long scars, and a distinct lack of those breasts he’d always been so keen to get rid of as a younger man.

Good for him.

That he never mentioned it in his letters annoys Felix for just a fraction of a second. Claude is private, and Felix had made quite the ass of himself as a teen. Not caring to mention such personal matters makes sense.

“Thanks.”

Claude grins. It’s not the same look Felix recalls. There’s none of that practiced smoothness to the expression that gave it away as a farce when they were young. Instead, there’s only hollow exhaustion behind it. Deep dimples and shallow laugh lines, crinkles beneath his eye that are swamped by dark circles.

“Don’t thank me. Hydarnes is the one that locked you in his sights.” Keeping Felix supported on one arm, Claude moves the other to fuss his wyvern. His gauntlet rubs against the underside of the Hydarnes’ chin, and the white brute coos affectionately. “That demonic beast was doing quite the number on you. Glad you’re alright.”

‘Alright’ is pushing it.

The wyvern’s head snaps around, looking for nearby dangers, and only when it decides that they’re safe does it bow its head to let its rider down. Still with Felix held on a single arm, Claude hops off the great lizard’s back and gently places him on the ground, uncorking an elixir from his belt and shoving it into Felix’s raw and ruddy hands.

It’s embarrassing, you see, the feeling that his legs have gone boneless. The elixir almost ends up on the floor when he’s left to stand dependent on his own strength. His singed, sparking fingers ache as he brings the bottle to his lips and downs it. This is the price he pays for his careless form and unpolished tactics.

The taste is as disgusting as any healing potion, unsurprisingly. It’s fine. Felix will take that over dealing with open wounds, especially with war still raging all around him. He spits at the ground, and sets to work assessing.

His sword is gone, that’s the first problem. He dropped it somewhere back there, but the battlefield is chaotic, and from where Claude has brought them down he can’t tell which way he should be looking for that blasted beast’s oversized corpse. 

No hide nor hair of Mercedes, or Flayn, or any of Felix’s own men. That’s problem number two. The ladies do well taking command; a few extra hands among their ranks will be a help rather than a hindrance. Likewise, Felix works best alone. Maybe that initial judgement was a wee bit off - provided nothing horrible happens from here, this works out alright for them all.

Breathing is no longer difficult. That one’s not a problem. Whatever internal damage was done by that monster, Claude’s potion appears to have fixed it up. That’s more than an average vulnerary or elixir could hope to do, meaning it’s safe to assume this is Claude’s own concoction. Felix is grateful, whatever the truth.

“I need a weapon,” he mumbles, staggering as he gets too confident in his aching, battered body. “A sword.”

Fuck him for taking up a team role. Fuck him for being the army’s  _ dancer _ , the motivator, the support. Felix is a lone wolf, and he pays the price now for going against his nature. Unarmed and alone with a man he’s not  _ entirely _ confident he can trust. So just fuck him, because he has no other long blades on him. There’s a just-in-case dagger strapped to his thigh that may or may not be carving into him after all of that, but nothing he can fight at his best with.

“No, you  _ need  _ to fall back and find cover, get real medical attention. You’ll be no use to your friends if you get yourself killed here.”

Infuriating.

He can’t,  _ won’t _ tell Felix what to do. No one tells Felix what to do. Claude reaches a friendly hand out to touch his shoulder, and Felix shrugs him off with a grunt.

“If you can’t arm me, then get out of my way.”

A shove gets Claude off of him, as well as earning him a warning growl from Hydarnes. Oh, whatever, he’s not out here to earn the approval of some overgrown whelp. Another search of his surroundings now that his eyesight has steadied reveals the boar prince off in the distance. He’s doing what else but charging headfirst into the Imperial guard, gunning for the emperor herself. What an idiot. He’ll surely die. Without much thought, Felix sets himself to run and intervene -

And then there’s something being placed in his hand.

A blade, finely balanced and thrumming with some indescribable power. Similar to the sword his father gave to Byleth, who in turn gave it to Felix. The blade is even the same flat, executioner-style as the one he’s grown used to. It’s undoubtedly his own blade’s kin.

This isn’t a relic, per se, but it has that same power and Felix can’t deny it. A sacred weapon, a risk-free taste of another Crest’s power. Claude is smiling his tired smile when he looks back at him.

“Consider it a loaner.”

Right.

A curt nod before he rushes off. He hears Claude remount and fire off a hail of arrows as he leaves his side, and Felix is forced to wonder just how close those enemies that he didn’t see a trace of were.

The Sword of Begalta is less well-maintained than Moralta. Claude, it seems, is not as into meticulously maintaining his weapons as Felix is, or else hasn’t put this particular one to much use. Its cuts are jagged, almost serrated where they should be smooth and clean, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth to cut down others with a blade so needlessly cruel. Yeah, no, he seriously doubts that Claude has used it much.

It’s funny how unlike himself he sees it to care; his enemies are just that, enemies. Opponents for him to best. Despite that, there’s an innate sense of wrongness when he tears into foes with Begalta. It delivers not the swift death he’s used to handing down with his strikes, instead being just dull enough that he can’t make a clean kill in a single blow. Every time he wrenches the sword free of a foe’s flesh, they’re left alive. Laying alive on a battlefield with no energy to do anything but scream out for the end isn’t something anyone deserves to go through.

Felix does what he can to put every foe out of their misery.

By the time he’s fought his way to being just shy of Dimitri, fire is raining over him in waves. Mages in black launch round after round. There are screams from behind him, shrill and tortured and familiar, but he can’t take his focus off of the boar that lunges at Edelgard.

It - no,  _ he _ \- fights with desperate, brutal tactics. He aims for vitals, for weak points in the armour. Hits land one after another. The goal is death for her, swift and undignified.

...Unfortunately, she knows what she’s doing. Edelgard moves gracefully, and Felix quickly realises that those aren’t failing dodges she’s pulling off. She’s deflecting Dimitri’s blows, directing them to the toughest sections of her armour. She’s getting away with almost no harm done to her. All because the boar prince is too caught up in his own all-consuming rage to notice that his strikes are ineffective.

The real problems begin when she returns Dimitri’s fierce force. Though huge and armoured, he hasn’t the thinking power to spare for defending himself. Edelgard is able to land devastating blow upon devastating blow.

Unprepared to think of defensive tactics, Dimitri screams out as he’s beaten down. Every weak spot in his armour, every connecting joint of it boasts a crack or a smear of dark blood leaking from within. One harsh blow makes his hands spasm, and Areadbhar goes flying.

And in spite of that, he fights on, bare-handed. It’s tragic to witness. Knowing the depths of his hate, Felix realises fast that he’ll die here if allowed to.

That would be disastrous for the army. Disastrous for him.

... _ Oh. _

It’s not as if he has the time to untangle the resurfacing feelings of care for Dimitri. He’s lost him before. Once. Twice. He can’t allow a third time. Dedue said there’s hope for him, and cynical, world-weary Felix is ready to indulge in a little hope. He’ll believe in a future where Dimitri regains himself. He’ll fight to see that he reaches it.

He’ll do his fucking duty.

The shield’s successor is going to live up to his damned title.

Protesting aches in his legs go ignored as Felix sprints, Begalta clutched in both hands tightly enough that, beneath his gloves, his knuckles go white and threaten to tear. He needs to be steady. He needs to be precise. He needs to parry at the perfect moment -

Except no, Dimitri goes down and doesn’t get back on his feet, and it throws Felix off. Has he given up? No, he wouldn’t.

Every step closer comes with five, ten deafening heartbeats as the blood rushes through him, and even so he can still hear the muttering. Dimitri, unable to lift his broken body, cursing Edelgard under his breath.

“Farewell, King of Delusion.”

The Emperor’s cold voice cuts through the air.

Edelgard raises her weapon. It’s an ugly, mangled thing. All the relics are. Something about this one is especially abominable, though. It gleams in the evening’s amber glow, its spines already decorated with black blood. This woman is more a monster than those beasts she sics on her foes.

Dimitri hisses and spits, animalistic in his desperation to move, dodge, anything. His exhausted body doesn’t respond.

Felix rushes in without a thought on what he’s going to do.

The sound of metal meeting bone and evil magic is a strange one. He’s heard it only from a distance until now, never personally fighting a foe wielding a relic. Quickly, Felix decides he hates it, but it isn’t going to matter in a moment. Edelgard’s brute force is something he can’t match. He can only buy time.

“Get up, and get your weapon.”

It’s a simple enough thing to do. The grunts of effort and scraping of metal tell him that Dimitri is managing. Good. Felix is glad.

That means it’s time for the hard part.

Begalta screeches as he drags it along Aymr’s malformed surface. Felix puts every last ounce of strength he has into moving it, gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes shut and barely stopping short of begging Sothis Herself to help him succeed here. The decisive moment comes, and he rams Claude’s blade into Edelgard with all the power he can muster. A spot between two plates of her armour is pried open and dug apart, thankfully, so as Aymr’s spines tear through Felix’s leather, then skin, then deep flesh, he carves out a terrible wound on Edelgard.

He dares not glance down. When his eyes go glassy and the pulsing of bright white auras blinds him, he still dares not take his eyes off of what was, a moment ago, Edelgard. If he looks, then it’s real. If he looks, then the excruciating pain is real.

Edelgard pulls away from him, and he can no longer use his blade in her armour to steady himself. His vision swims far worse than it ever has before, and with no control over it, Felix looks down at his body.

Having had more than his fair share of injuries in his life, he’s pretty confident that this is going to be serious. An ugly, ragged split from his collar to his navel that digs deep enough that he swears his guts will spill at any moment. The grass at his feet is dyed deep red and worrying brown and deathly black. His armour, useless against Aymr’s unnatural force, hangs in tatters off of him while decorated in the same macabre hues as the earth. Glittering in the sunset, framed by the dark gore like some sort of twisted art piece, gristly white fat and pink tissue spill from what once was a breast. A sickening display if ever there was one.

Felix tries to speak. Tries to scream. Tries to make any noise at all. His throat is dry, too dry to make a sound that reaches above a crackling moan.

It’ll be fine.

He’s wounded the enemy leader, and she announces to her men that she must fall back. Felix, too, must fall. Before Edelgard has even turned away he’s collapsing, agony coursing through him and leaving him to spasm undignified in the soil. He only distantly hears Dimitri’s rage-filled shrieks as he goes chasing after Edelgard.

Shadows creep in at the edges of his vision. All he sees are dark blotches, clawing closer to the centre with every slowing beat of his heart. The world is dark and distant, and Felix knows that he is going to die. The last phantom of a shape that he sees is a golden blur moving toward him, and the far-too-far away call of his name.

* * *

Linhardt is not built for the battlefield, and that has to be why he’s on orders to stick as close to Dedue as he can. Not that he has any major complaints about that fact; on the contrary, this is a best-case scenario. He has a comfortable seat on the back of Dedue’s wyvern, one hand at all times kept fixed around his protector’s expansive waist. Were they not sailing off into a dreadful fight, Linhardt would be more than happy to snuggle in close and take a nap with his head against Dedue’s back.

What a pity the reality of the situation is.

Amaru snarls and bites whenever a foe draws too close to them. His rough scales take a beating as he shifts his body, making every move he can to defend his rider. It’s sweet, if not a little inappropriate. The creature isn’t invincible. Dedue needs him alive if he’s going to get out of here, and in turn Linhardt needs Dedue alive if he’s going to make it out unscathed.

“Perhaps we should go higher?” is his suggestion when they have a moment to breathe. “Scout out the enemy from above? I should be able to do some damage control from up there, you know. Sweep stragglers away and all that.”

“We can’t,” Dedue answers bluntly. “On the hill, you see? There are archers waiting. If we go skyward, then we give them an easy target. I don’t like our odds if that happens.”

Oh. He hadn’t seen them. 

“Drat.”

They continue their low flight, Linhardt doing what he can to clear enemies that dodge out of the range of Dedue’s axe. Sometimes they wait, patiently, and he dozes off momentarily until they’re on the move again. Ashe bobs in and out of view on occasion, as well; he’s hard to follow, ducking behind trees and weaving between clustered hills, but he’s there. He snipes any aggressors that Linhardt misses, and Linhardt supposes he’s thankful for the help.

The call to retreat is made by some Imperial commander, who heard it from some other commander, who heard it from Emperor Edelgard herself, and just like that the battlefield thins of foes. Claude, too, makes a hasty retreat. Linhardt catches his wyvern speed by in a rush, disappearing before he even gets the chance to properly look at its rider. He knows it’s Claude only by the voice as he yells.

It’s Claude’s panic, familiar from his youth. The panic of a plan that has drastically, suddenly changed because some soldier has stepped out of line and cocked the whole thing up. Usually Lorenz in their school days, but that’s impossible now. Lorenz is still in the Kingdom army’s dungeon.

Someone should really let him out soon.

Imperial and Alliance forces alike drain from the field, leaving behind only the dead and the dying for the Kingdom to clear away. Dedue catches sight of Dimitri, being cornered and calmed by Rodrigue Fraldarius. He runs a hand over the bronze scales of Amaru’s neck, prompting the beast to let him and Linhardt down, before limping his way off toward his liege. Linhardt turns away as movement catches his eye. Popping out from another area of forested ground is Ashe, cautious and jittery. He’s dragging a bloodied Dorothea with him as Marianne frets over her.

Minutes tick by before they find Mercedes and Flayn, miraculously alive amidst the sea of bodies littering Gronder. They stick close to one another, on high alert even as their allies approach. Flayn in particular is, as delicately as Linhardt can think to put it, a real mess. Near-unrecognisable compared to her usual self. Her saintly vestments are dyed with the blood of beasts, thick and dark and clinging. Her hair has come loose from its usual style and falls in stiff and sweaty spirals down her back. And of course, the most concerning change of all is how she grips the Sword of Moralta(!) with set jaw and furrowed brow. That steely, stern expression is betrayed by the tears springing at the edges of her glassy eyes.

Something is wrong here, more so than the usual toll of battle.

“Where’s Felix?”

It’s Annette that asks, scurrying over with one arm hanging limp at her side. Mercedes is the one to spring into action for her and go about checking her injuries over.

“I’m really not sure,” Mercie muses in that breathy voice of hers. “We were separated while fighting one of those awful monsters. I thought I saw a wyvern grab him, but I’d assumed that was you, Dedue.”

“Obviously not.”

Linhardt’s smarmy quip earns him a  _ look _ from Ashe. For all his knowledge, he can’t figure out what the look is meant to mean to him.

The faces of the rest, though, he can identify. Creeping terror that has Annette’s eyes bulging and gets her worrying her lip. Subdued, accepting sadness from Dedue. He’s so ready to believe the worst these days. A furrowed brow from Mercedes, at the other end of the scale from Dedue as she shakes her head, unwilling to accept what they’re all thinking.

They make such a fuss, but Linhardt can’t see Felix falling on the battlefield here of all places.

“You concern yourselves far too much. Someone with his skill, his rage - unless he moved foolishly, I find it hard to believe he’d be outmatched.”

He says it with confidence, though that confidence wanes quickly when all commanders and classmates are accounted for apart from Felix. The breadth of the field is scoured by Ashe and his scouts thrice-over, and still Felix isn’t found among the wounded or hidden. When Ashe comes back the final time, he lowly states his findings.

“Numerous bodies, burned beyond recognition on the tallest hill. Three were wearing Kingdom colours. One could be identified as… feminine in shape, and dark-haired. Upon discovery they were thought to be one of the Lion Dancers, but…”

“But the dancers are  _ my _ battalion,” cuts in Ingrid. “And all of them are here and accounted for, we had miraculously low… casualties.”

Her fiery refute fizzles out, Ashe’s implication finally landing for her.

“No, no way. That simply isn’t possible-!”

Like a child, she balls her fists and stamps her foot as if it will somehow make her correct.

“We… have no proof, however! As I said, the body can’t… be identified. So…”

It still isn’t looking great.

Retreat is called not too long later, when scouts return with warnings of Edelgard’s soldiers regrouping. Still, no one has seen Felix. It nags at Linhardt that something is dreadfully wrong. Felix hasn’t come back, and Felix  _ always  _ comes back. Another once-over of the field before they leave would be ideal in his eyes, but… well. Judging by how Dimitri struggles against Sylvain and Rodrigue’s grip, it seems they don’t have the luxury of time. The pair of them are dragging him back as he screams and roars and spits. 

Moments like this have the unkind thoughts crossing Linhardt’s mind, the thoughts where he agrees with Felix’s judgment of Dimitri as ‘boar.’ It’s not so simple that he’s animalistic, and Linhardt isn’t about to adopt that as his position. A lot is wrong with the raging man before him, and to an extent, he’s sympathetic. War and anger and pain warps the psyche in ways few scholars in Fódlan have bothered to research.    
If it was a little more exciting, Linhardt himself would consider a look at all that sort of head nonsense. Ooh, that’s a thought. Could the different negative reactions people have to extreme suffering be down to their Crests? That could be an influence -

A strong hand on his arm yanks him from the daydream of a research breakthrough. Dedue pulls him, then lifts him back onto Amaru, and there’s a light flutter in the pit of Linhardt’s stomach. Now is certainly not the time for those sorts of feelings. Amaru chuffs as Dedue runs a hand across his snout. He doesn’t climb aboard, instead heading back toward Dimitri.

“Dedue, we must retreat-”

“His Highness is in a bad way. Amaru will take you to safety. I advise that you take Annette and Dorothea as well, both of them are in need of urgent care when we arrive back at Myrrdin, and-”

A cry of rage. A grunt of pain, and then another. The sound of the Creator Sword ripping its way through the air before finding purchase in flesh. A girl, young and frail and too small to be out here on the battlefield, falls. Chaos erupts as, following her fall, Rodrigue Fraldarius collapses bloody against Dimitri, who bellows and weeps.

Linhardt moves on instinct, hopping from Amaru’s back once more and rushing with speed unsuited to him to Rodrigue’s side, hand raised with the holy power of healing. He does not move fast enough. Even as he lays hands on Rodrigue, even as Mercedes joins him, as Flayn joins him, as Marianne joins him, Duke Fraldarius does not breathe again. He lays, peaceful, smiling serenely in Dimitri’s lap. Dimitri is as far from peace as one can get.

Before Rodrigue’s body has even turned cold, Imperial reinforcements appear on the scorched hill. Everyone runs. The Kingdom army retreats, forgoing camp in favour of hurrying back to Myrddin, and then to Garreg Mach. The next few days blur. No one sees Felix throughout.

Sylvain is calm, unnervingly so. He writes plans to return to Gronder and find Felix, maps out ideas for sifting through the rubble to find his body. He scraps them all. Too dangerous, too risky, too much of a team effort, too much fuss for what Felix would want.

Burnt out on his strategies, he instead goes between the infirmary and the dining hall, delivering meals to those too injured to move. He  _ smiles _ much of the time. There’s nothing behind it.

He also fails to attend Rodrigue’s funeral, which doubles as Felix’s. It’s only Sylvain and Dimitri that don’t show up.

Ingrid, Ashe, and Annette weep at the shared grave. Mercedes, Gilbert, and Flayn pray. Dedue leaves fine blue and white flowers. Byleth stares, their gaze occasionally shifting to the shared grave of Sitri and Jeralt Eisner. Even those who knew them less make courteous appearances, offering condolences to those who truly grieve.

Linhardt tries in vain to decipher what’s happening in his own head. The dead are dead, nothing changes that - a loss at Gronder is unsurprising, and he considers it a bit tasteless to toast only these noblemen and put all the common knights who fell while waving Dimitri’s banner aside - and still he finds himself drawn to sit by the grave and ponder. Long after the others leave, Linhardt remains with a furrowed brow and well-worried lip. It’s a nasty habit that leaves it red and raw, and Caspar always helpfully pointed out when he was doing it so he could stop himself.

Caspar. Another face he may never see again. He misses the little brute dearly.. He wishes they’d left the Empire together. He wishes they’d taken Bernadetta too, if only to save her from a fate of burning on the pyre of Gronder’s high hill. Linhardt wishes so desperately that they’d left together, the three of them, and stolen away on a ship to some distant shore. Linhardt would miss his research… but he’d have himself, and Bernie, and dear Caspar.

Himself?

Themselves?

They find they’re feeling no strong attachments to such masculine monikers today, and so away with them. Linhardt is Linhardt, and no gender highs nor lows can change that today they are sad, snapped from their apathetic haze by losing one they must admit was a good friend to them.

They doze amidst their thoughts, as they often do. Fine normally. Less so when one has perched themselves on a wall that tips back over a deadly ravine. Were they to fall, their body would at least be found, for the passage leading to that clearing from Abyss has been cleared of foes and made common Abyssian knowledge these days.

Their body would be found, unlike Felix’s.

The miserable haze of near-sleep is snapped when they actually feel their body tip over the edge. Linhardt scrambles to regain their balance, finding themselves steadied only when a large hand wraps around their dainty wrist and painfully yanks them.

It’s Dimitri. Obsidian and sapphire armour is stripped away for the moment. In its place are simple robes, baring his bandaged chest. Something yellow oozes and seeps through the wrappings. Infection is likely. Something foul and poisonous and painful that Linhardt thinks he  _ must _ have noticed, though he shows no sign of being in pain.

Dimitri twitches and grunts, turning away when sure Linhardt is safe.

“You missed the funeral.”

The words tumble from their ragged lips in place of a decent thank you. It’s possible they have some subconscious death wish, hoping to be crushed in those enormous hands. Or maybe they do not, and wish for the same anyway. Grief is so annoying in how it warps the way desires approach them.

“...I think, though, that Duke Fraldarius would appreciate your private visit. I shall leave, Your Highness, should you permit it.”

Some feeling of… terror? Respect? Keeps Linhardt from properly looking Dimitri in the face. They prefer it that way anyway, to be fair, but if anyone’s going to call them on it, it’s probably not the hulking beast of a man standing before him.

Dimitri works his jaw, searching for words.

“The dead… likely do not appreciate your use of their monuments as a place to bed down.”

“It wasn’t my  _ intention _ to sleep here,” is fired back at him before they can stop themselves. “I was… thinking. Reflecting on a lost friend. Hoping, I suppose. We have no proof of his fall in battle. The slim chance does exist that he’s out there, and will find his way back to Myrddin soon enough-”

“Felix is dead.”

The hand at their wrist tightens its grip, and Linhardt feels their pale flesh bruising in Dimitri’s grip.

“I saw him fall, and… I know it to be the case. Felix is dead. All but killed by my own hand.”

Linhardt gapes, speaking again only when ripped from their shock by their own shuddering at the implications.

“ _ Please _ , elaborate.”

“He… defended me. Against  _ her _ \- Edelgard, I - I was much too caught up. In destroying her. In finding the vengeance that the ghosts of those she stole from me so desperately seek. They cry even now for it, and it’s unbearable. I can’t ignore them. I couldn’t ignore them there. And, in such a state - I was wounded. Bad. You saw me. You know how I was confined to the infirmary upon our return. You see me now. She was going to strike me down, and my crusade for justice would have ended on the spines of her axe.”

Dimitri swallows.

“Except… no, I did not fall there. Felix. He intervened. He knew he fought for  _ me, _ of all the lowly, wretched creatures, and he still made that choice. He held her off, allowed me to regain my footing… but, I… I left him. Undignified, bleeding out in the grass. I chased  _ her _ and I left Felix. I may as well have been the one to kill him, you see! You see, yes? It was… my fault, and… Rodrigue and Felix both, they both died to me-! He told me it was not the case, but I am no fool, I understand a dying parent’s wish for a child to live unburdened, and Rodrigue… like a father to me… and still! And still, it is my fault! Don’t you see that it is my fault?!”

The enormous monster of a man grips Linhardt tighter, tighter still. Their wrist is going to break. The bone will splinter and the flesh will split, all by the force of Dimitri’s hand.

“ _ I _ killed them both. Felix fell to the boar he spent so long warning against! I am dangerous to my men, I’m - I am an ugly, evil thing! All is as he said! An abominable jest of the Goddess’s sick sense of humour!”

This whole thing is a lot to take in for them. A trusted ally, a friend… He was rude, tactless, kind of awful. But he saved them multiple times. They’d done the same for him. They cared for him, and they’d hoped, hoped that against all odds, that he would come back… and now they know that he won’t. Dimitri’s confession is vile. They suppress a retch.

_ It’s not his fault _ , a part of Linhardt feels the need to remind them.  _ Rarely is he in his right mind when Edelgard is involved _ .

Linhardt seeks the words that will soothe this broken beast, and finds that none come to them. No choice do they have but to sit, stock-still, bones threatening to break as Dimitri puts them in the role of the Goddess’s secondary witness to confession.

They don’t know how much of Seiros’s teaching is true. They know, at least, that it’s less than the church would have one thinking, but still. Not a clue have they about how much Sothis truly hears of this, or if She’s even out there. They are not the person for Dimitri to unload on. A sympathetic ear is perhaps what they  _ should  _ offer… except that’s so much effort, and they aren’t all that certain how to go about it, and oh, they are frightened. If the wrong words were to slip from their lips, would they be torn asunder? Ripped into tiny shreds for not being a good enough shoulder to cry on? Linhardt would rather that not happen.

Dimitri does, eventually, set them free. It’s not good or right of them, but as he slumps to the floor and weeps, grief-wracked before the Fraldarius grave, they flee the scene. Their heart thumps in their chest. Heavy and alive. Alive in a way that Dimitri no longer is, or perhaps never was. Linhardt doesn’t know.

Back to their dorm room. When the door is shut and they are alone, they sink down to the worn floorboards with their back to the door, and breathe a heavy sigh of relief. They are safe now, snug and secure in a space of their own. Even here, though, they aren’t free of reminders of what’s lost. A dent in the wall where Caspar once ran head-on at it. Textbooks borrowed from Claude and never returned. An ancient pile of hair ties once shared between them, Felix, and Annette. These aren’t the same ghosts that allegedly haunt Dimitri, but they know these to be their own sort of ghosts. Memories that can’t be scrubbed from the room. They’ll be here forever, long after those who made them are gone. And Linhardt must live drowning in them.

The stink of ash from that accursed battle is stuck in their nose. They flop down on their bed, trying to ignore the world around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can U Believe Felix Frathouse Is McFucking Dead (he's not)
> 
> also while showing my beta the art for the demonic beasts Edelgard uses I found out 1) they're called crawlers?? ew and 2) they're just a giant horrible mouth under the mask!!!!!! very spooky


End file.
